


Kings and Vagabonds

by spinstitcher (stygian)



Series: The Heat of the Rolling World [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Loki Does What He Wants, Mpreg, Odin's stellar parenting, Post-Avengers, Sleipnir is a fairy princess, Unconventional Families, abuse of mythology, adventures in jotunheim, adventures in midgard, adventures in svartálfaheim, adventures in vanaheim, book forts, but with plot?, every time is naked loki time, gratuitous elves, i just like tying loki to things ok, loki and helblindi are bros, mpreg of a fashion at least, non-binary alien biology, recovery fic, shake those buttocks Thor, shameless crack, which is to be naked and eat fish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stygian/pseuds/spinstitcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Chitauri Loki is stripped of his powers and banished to Vanaheim. Nobody tasers him, but there is an awful lot of singing and dancing. Accompanied by his eldest son, who happens to be a horse, Loki slowly begins to carve out a place for himself – one that isn’t Supreme Ruler of the Known Universe.</p><p>But there is another power emerging from the darkness; one that threatens the safety – and sanity – of all the Nine Realms. Loki may have given up his dreams of becoming Glorious Overlord, but that doesn’t mean someone else gets to take his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hilariously inappropriately (or perhaps hilariously appropriately?) the title is a line from "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?" from The Lion King. I'm borrowing elements from the films, the mythology, the comics, and Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes.
> 
> Warnings: Some language that could be interpreted as ableist from Loki POV.

Odin Allfather’s justice is as swift and terrible as it is wise. Odin Allfather’s justice is a law of the universe, an immutable fact. When Ragnarok comes and all the worlds burn, Odin Allfather’s justice will prevail. Loki knows this. For a thousand years he has known this.

When that lurching, unstable, Tesseract-powered journey back to Asgard is complete, Loki expects to be taken immediately to the throne room, to face the court of the Aesir, to face the Allfather’s justice. At first it seems like this will indeed be the case; Thor wastes no time in dragging him from the jagged remains of the Bifrost into the heart of the city. Thor’s face is set and hard, blue eyes cold, laughing mouth tight with unhappy lines. Loki could interpret a whole history from those lines – a history that begins in Jotunheim and ends on Midgard. Loki’s treachery can be mapped out on Thor’s skin. When they pass two stoic members of the king’s guard standing watch at the gates, Thor does not grin at them, nor clap them on the shoulders, nor ask them about their wellbeing, their families, as is his wont; instead he sweeps past them as if they are mere shadows, sparing each of them a single, terse nod.

Despite himself, Loki is a little unsettled by his not-brother’s behaviour. He doesn’t know what to do with this stranger that has claimed him, this tired and saturnine creature that shining, gold-bright Thor has become. This is not the Thor of his childhood, the boisterous boy who believed wholeheartedly that eating vegetables would cause carrots to grow out of his ears, because Loki had told him so; nor is it Thor the kicked puppy, the injured and persistent sibling intent on repairing something that was never there; nor is it Thor the warrior, Thor the Avenger. This is Thor-the-something-else. This is a Thor entirely alien to Loki, Loki whose knowledge surpasses every being in the Nine Realms, Loki to whom nothing is alien.

Distracted as he is by his not-brother’s uncharacteristic behaviour, it takes Loki longer than it should to notice exactly where Thor is taking him. Thor does not take him to the Allfather, despite the fact that Odin must already have been informed of their presence in his realm, by Heimdall, or by his ravens, Huginn and Muninn. The word will have spread. The court must already be clamouring for Loki’s blood by now.

And yet Thor does not take him to the Allfather. He takes him to the Healing Room.

As they walk through the wide white doors Loki stumbles in surprise, and even as he curses himself for the brief moment of weakness Thor bundles him into the arms of the waiting healers. Snarling and spitting around the gag, kicking and scratching to no avail, Loki is callously manhandled into the nearest available bed and strapped down to be examined. They do not remove the gag or the cuffs – likely they are too wary of a Loki in possession of all his powers – but rather work around them, casting their feeble magics in tandem, attempting to diagnose what ails him. They will have no luck; there is no diagnosis for monstrousness, nor any cure, and Loki knows now that he has been monstrous all his life.

Thor watches from the doorway and his face betrays nothing, not anxiousness, not relief, not any kind of joy or dismay. Loki is unaccustomed to an unreadable Thor, and it only adds to his unease. Punishment he can handle – punishment he was expecting – but this is not punishment, not yet, and he doesn’t know what to think of that. His not-brother usually wears his emotions plainly on his face and in his body, his gestures. Loki has spent a whole lifetime learning to read those gestures and now it is as if he has suddenly become blind, blind and utterly impotent. He cannot fathom why Thor would have brought him to the Healing Room rather than to the execution block, or even to a prison cell. All of his physical wounds from the matter in New York had been seen to by mortal healers; surely this is only a delaying tactic, some way of confusing or postponing Odin’s justice. But to what end? What could Thor possibly hope to gain from this?

After what seems an age the healers finally retreat, gathering in the corner to confer amongst themselves in hushed whispers. One of them, a woman with a sharp nose and salt-and-pepper hair, peels off from the crowd and goes to Thor.  From the bed Loki bares his teeth, though nobody can see it beneath the gag. If they try to take blood from him he will bite them, gag or no.

“Your brother is physically recovered, apart from a little malnutrition and sleep deprivation,” says the healer, speaking in an undertone that nevertheless still carries to Loki’s ears. “There is a faint psychic trace still clinging to him – I presume from the Chitauri – but we’re not too concerned about it, it should clear up in a couple of days so long as he maintains distance. And from what I hear that shouldn’t be a problem.”

At that Loki sits up, straining to hear more, but Thor only thanks the healer and bids her return to her post. Scowling, Loki falls back into the bed, tugging half-heartedly at the straps and cuffs binding him. Is this how the Allfather means to punish him, by leaving him in suspense as to his fate, while every puling commoner seems to know all about what is in store for him?

At least he can be fairly certain, now, that they aren’t going to kill him. What would be the point of taking him to the healers if they were only going to decapitate him afterwards? Unless of course they are only trying to torment him – in which case they have succeeded merely by inflicting Thor on him.

“Brother,” says Thor softly – and when did Thor move to his bedside? When Loki was lost in thought, apparently. He must not let his guard down again. “Brother, are you comfortable?”

Loki stares at him. His eyes flicker down to the cuffs on his wrists, and then back to Thor’s pleading eyes.

Thor coughs. “Yes, well. Under the circumstances... I’m sure you, brother, with all your vaunted intellect, can understand why Father believes that keeping you restrained is the safer option. At least for now.”

Thor pauses as if to await a reply; Loki says nothing, which might have something to do with the gag stopping up his mouth. He would not have said anything even if he had the capacity to – Thor has been in contact with Odin? Thor brought him to the Healing Room at the request of the king?

“You will spend the night here,” says Thor, “resting, and recuperating. In the morning I will take you to Father and you will face his justice. You must understand,” he adds, somewhat desperately, “we have only your best interests at heart – you have been poisoned, brother, and we wish to help you heal.”

Loki snorts and lets his gaze drift away, staring up at the ceiling. The only poison within him is Laufey’s blood, and he can hardly be rid of that. If it pleases Thor to offer platitudes and false sympathy then that is his business – Loki will have no part in it.

“Brother?” tries Thor, but Loki does not give him any sort of answer, does not even glance back at him. Even in the face of Loki’s blatant disdain Thor does not falter, but only pulls up a chair and settles in, waiting. Eventually his breath slows out and is replaced by a familiar deep rumble, echoing through the Healing Room. Something clenches within Loki’s chest, and he closes his eyes. Somehow the sound of Thor’s incessant snoring is more painful than anything that his not-brother could say to him.

Loki does not sleep that night, and in the morning he has not rested and he has not recuperated. What need has he of rest? He is Loki Silvertongue, Loki World-wanderer, Loki Realm-breaker. He is Loki Nobodyson. This may be the last glimpse he ever has of Asgard’s walls, whether he is destined for death or a prison cell, and he will not waste it sleeping.

Dawn breaks, and the bells ring out. Thor startles into wakefulness, a trail of drool emerging from the corner of his mouth. Loki scowls beneath the gag.

“Hrghmm,” says Thor, which resolves itself into, “Good morning, brother!” after he has had a moment to gather his (admittedly few) wits together. Loki does not know what he is so happy about – morning means that he is to be sentenced. Morning means that he and Thor are to be separated for good.

Thor yawns and stretches hugely, then wriggles in his chair; with a certain unkind glee Loki recalls that his not-brother has never slept well outside of his own bed, regardless of the many quests and adventures that have forced him to find sleep wherever he falls. Sure enough, as Thor stands he gives his buttocks a little shake, as if to waken them from numbness. Loki stifles a snort.

“Servants!” Thor booms, and as if he has called them into being merely by wishing it, a small flotilla of servants immediately scurries up to bow and scrape and offer their services. “My brother and I require sustenance!”

Within moments sustenance is provided: a veritable feast of eggs, bread, meat and soup, with a few plates of fruit and mugs of mead to top it off. Mead for breakfast – Thor has not changed. Loki gnaws on a hunk of bread and tastes nothing but ash. There is a cold, queasy feeling in his stomach, and he cannot help but look to the window, to the rising sun sending rosy fingers whispering over Asgard’s golden spires. There is very little time left. Soon the waiting will be over and Loki will know what is to become of him.

“Calm down,” says Thor. Loki starts and inadvertently meets his gaze. There is a strange tenderness within his eyes, and when he places a hand upon Loki’s shoulder he does so gently, as if soothing a skittish animal. “You have committed great crimes, and you will be punished. I cannot change that. But your punishment will not be unreasonable – we want your rehabilitation, not your destruction. Father loves you. We all love you, and act from love.”

Loki feels as if he has been stabbed. There is a sharp pain beneath his breast, and for a moment he finds it hard to breathe; a moment later he finds his equilibrium and turns away, unable to meet Thor’s unwavering gaze. His not-brother is a naive child, still innocent to the horrors of the world, still resistant to the reality of Loki’s treason.

They walk to the throne room in silence.

The gathered court is exactly as Loki remembers them, exactly as he had imagined them to be. His and Thor’s procession up to the dais is an ugly mockery of Thor’s would-be coronation – only instead of cheering them on, the gathered crowds are eerily quiet, but for the occasional muffled whisper or insult. Atop the golden throne sits Odin Borson, Odin Allfather, Odin War-merry, Spear-shaker, Shield-breaker. Odin the Deceiver. Odin Sure-of-victory, mover of constellations, lord of the hanged.

Odin is not dressed for battle. Loki’s mind is buzzing too fiercely for him to make anything of that.

There is a silence, and then the Allfather speaks.

“Loki,” he greets him, and then pointedly: “ _Odinson_. You know well all the ways in which you have transgressed. You have acted in anger and carelessness, caused untold deaths, ravaged Jotunheim and Midgard alike. And yet in part these crimes are also mine. I am to blame for keeping the truth of your origins from you for so very long, and for not being there to guide you through the discovery. I deceived you and led you to deceive others in turn. No longer.”

Loki’s lip curls beneath the gag. Odin’s prattle might have been a balm to him before he had fallen from the Bifrost, but coming after the Chitauri, after the Other, after the chaos in New York, it is too little and too late.

Standing beside the throne, Frigga’s eyes are filling slowly with tears, though there is a wobbly sort of smile on her face. She gives Loki a look that is probably meant to be reassuring. Loki does not feel reassured. Beside him Thor’s hand tightens on his arm; he shakes it off, unable to bear the hypocrisy of his not-brother’s attempts at comfort.

The assembled court is entirely silent, waiting for a verdict.

Loki’s skin crawls.

“For your crimes,” continues the Allfather, “you will be banished to Vanaheim, and stripped of your powers until the time comes that you are worthy to wield them again. You will be free to roam Vanaheim, as Thor was free to roam Midgard during his own banishment – save that you will have a companion, where he did not.”

There is a roaring in Loki’s ears, and he cannot tell whether it comes from the gathered crowds or from the chaos of his own mind. Banishment? To _Vanaheim_? And with a companion – what companion? What Asgardian would deign to accompany Loki in his banishment, after all that he is done? The royal family have their own duties, as does every member of the court, including Sif and the Warriors Three. Loki has acquaintances among the commoners, but none that he would call friend. (This is not any kind of slur upon Asgard’s commoners – after his recent stint as attempted conqueror of the Nine Realms, there is not a single being across all the roots of Yggdrasil that Loki would call friend.)

Thor steps to the side, leaving Loki alone in the centre of the throne room. His not-brother nods to him, encouragingly, and then bows his head.

Odin lifts the Tesseract in its gilded cage, and places his pale, wrinkled hand upon it. The soft blue light glows brighter and brighter until it is burning Loki’s eyelids, until he feels sure that his eyes will boil out of his skull, and his whole body is hot and cold and lurching and rushing and burning, the gag and the cuffs melting away into the ether – and then suddenly it is over, and Loki falls to his knees in the grass, entirely spent.

He opens his eyes.

The throne room has disappeared, replaced with the lush forests of Vanaheim.

Above him the sky arches out forever, bright and burning with an eternity of stars. And within him – it feels as if his whole skeleton has been ripped out, as if Odin reached inside and scooped out the core of him. His power is gone. His magics – gone. Odin might as well have stolen his lungs, his heart, his mind.

He stares at the sky, and then down at his hands. It takes a moment for him to comprehend what he is seeing.

His hands are Jotun-blue, tipped with sharp black claws, and beneath his skin blue blood throbs lazily through spiralling veins. Jotun blood. Traitor’s blood, proof of his monstrousness. Loki suppresses a gasp, and then realises that he has nobody to suppress it for. He lets out a choked cry, and his hands fly up to his face, feeling the thick raised lines webbed across his cheekbones, across his forehead. His eyes, he knows, are a poisonous red, redder than blood, redder than Thor’s ridiculous cape. The illusion that he has laboured under all his life is gone, and in its absence he does not know what to do. Thor had made a life in Midgard – how is Loki to make a life in Vanaheim, when all who meet him will know him for the monster that he is?

There is a soft whicker from behind him, and Loki freezes in place. He knows that whicker – he would know it anywhere. The sound of it is as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. He turns, slowly.

Standing tall and proud in the shade of a linden tree is Sleipnir, Odin’s warhorse – that is to say Sleipnir Svaðilfarison, child of Loki. His eyes are dark and knowing, with trails of his mane hanging down around them like spun silver, and his hide is a ghostly white.

Sleipnir whuffs, quietly, and Loki walks to him as if in a dream, resting his own forehead against his son’s, tangling his monstrous hands in that shining mane. Sleipnir does not move away from him. Loki’s eyes feel hot and itchy, and it takes him a long moment to notice that he is crying.

Three hundred years ago, a giant had asked a terrible price in return for building the wall that circles the whole of Asgard. Loki, ever the trickster, had devised a plan to prevent the Aesir from having to pay that price: he transformed himself into a mare in heat, and lured the builder’s great stallion away, so that he could not haul the rocks to build the wall, and could not finish the wall in time for the wager’s terms to be met. Loki had fallen pregnant and the product of that union had been Sleipnir, an eight-legged, gangly, beautiful thing, born of deceit, but as gentle and honest a creature as Asgard had ever seen. For the past two centuries Sleipnir had been in service of Odin, the man he thought to be his grandfather. In that time Loki and his son had seen each other only occasionally, and spoken rarely.

Sleipnir has three other siblings by Angrboða, but they are spread all across the realms; Hela in Helheim, Fenrir trapped in the caves of Svartálfaheim, and Jörmungand ensconced in the seas of Midgard. Loki has not seen them in decades. In all the chaos of Thor’s derailed coronation, the ill-fated trip to Jotunheim, the revelation of his parentage, Loki had never once stopped to think of how that might reflect on his children – and after that it had been too late. There is a lump in his throat, as if he had tried to swallow one of Idunn’s apples whole, and it became stuck on the way down.

If Loki’s blood makes him monstrous – and that same blood runs through his children’s veins – he does not want to follow that thought to its logical conclusion. His children are perfect, the sole perfect thing that he has done in his life. And yet he knows that Asgard does not agree with him – why else would Angrboða’s get have been exiled, and Sleipnir reduced to the work of a common animal?

“What do you think you are doing in Vanaheim?” Loki asks, pressing a kiss to his son’s furred nose. “You know that forests don’t agree with you. If I catch you eating whortleberries again I won’t be pleased.”

Sleipnir snorts loudly, blowing hot, moist air over his face.

“No, don’t be like that,” Loki tells him. “Need I remind you of Odin’s last hunting trip? You were ill for days. Imagine what Thor would say if you ruined my banishment by having indigestion all over the place.”

His son adopts a look of exaggerated innocence, bobbing his head and widening his eyes sweetly. It’s a look that Loki has been unable to resist since Sleipnir was a colt. Sleipnir is the largest stallion in Odin’s stables, now, but in Loki’s eyes he is still a gangly foal, tripping over his own hooves and constantly making trouble around the palace.

“Don’t give me that look, it hasn’t worked on me since you were a babe,” lies Loki blatantly. “Did Moth – did Frigga coerce you to come with me? I am banished, you know, it’s not exactly temporary. What could you possibly have been –”

Sleipnir interrupts him by pressing his head against Loki’s chest, insistently, until Loki staggers backwards, falling on his arse in the middle of the clearing. His son soon follows him, rolling around on his back in the grass, with all the glee of Thor confronted with an opportunity to stealth-bearhug someone, or Volstagg surrounded by desserts.

“You overgrown toddler,” scolds Loki, amused despite himself. “You’ve been wanting to do that since we got here, haven’t you?”

Sleipnir snorts happily, and spits a tuft of grass at him.

Loki sighs, and surrenders, falling on his back and staring up at the glaringly bright sky. The stars here are brighter even than the heavens of Asgard. He has not been to Vanaheim in a very long time; the last time he was here there was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving Thor and some goats, and Loki had not been foolhardy enough to return after that. He had not exactly missed it, but there is something comforting and nostalgic about lying here in the heart of the forest, with dappled, golden light spilling through the leaves and painting Sleipnir’s hide with shadows.

He tries not to think about whether that was Odin’s intention in sending him here, with his son to accompany him. Sleipnir is the blood of Loki – the only true blood of Loki in the whole of Asgard, now that he knows he is the child of Laufey and Fárbauti, and not of Odin and Frigga. Perhaps sending Sleipnir with him was an attempt at comfort, or perhaps it was only Odin seizing the chance to rid his palace of every last trace of Jotun influence. Sleipnir shares in Loki’s punishment, now, though he has done no wrong.

“Come on then,” he says, rolling over and facing his son. He stands up, brushing grass and dirt from his clothes. “Let’s see where we are.”

 Sleipnir rises to his feet, like a landslide in reverse, all rippling muscles and cascading soil. Loki insinuates a hand into his mane, and uses it to swing himself up onto his son’s back. Sleipnir cranes his neck back to check that Loki is safely in place, then sets off at a light trot, winding around exposed roots and occasionally ducking to avoid low-hanging branches. Loki hums a quiet tune to himself, an old ballad from the mead-halls of Asgard.

It turns out that they are in a part of Vanaheim that Loki has visited before, though he does not know whether this is intentional or merely coincidence. There is a river nearby that he recognises from its bright violet waters – if he remembers correctly, the water is drinkable, but has a tendency to turn his tongue purple – and when he climbs to the top of one of the enormous old oak trees, the terrain laid out before him looks vaguely familiar. In the distance there is a city, which he resolves to avoid, and scattered throughout the forest there are several squat little domiciles. There are a few trails of smoke that probably belong to campfires. The nights on Vanaheim are long, and the days short; though it is only a few hours past midday, the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, heralded by hot orange light spreading out behind the mountains.

He clambers down from his tree, snagging his sleeve on a twig and tearing it slightly on the way down. Sleipnir neighs anxiously when he leaps from a height rather than climbing the remaining twenty feet, but Loki lands lightly, like a cat. Even without his powers he is not without agility – it seems that in his frost giant form some things are innate.

Night falls swiftly, and the night-chants of the Vanir begin to echo around the mountains. Wary of predators, Loki insists that he and his son find some kind of shelter for the night. Any predator that would target a frost giant and a gigantic warhorse would be a very foolish predator indeed, but Loki does not have access to his magics or to any of his weapons, and he is – quite reasonably, he thinks – feeling somewhat paranoid.

He is torn as to whether he should start a fire or not. He would need a fire to cook anything, but Sleipnir has already filled up his belly with grass, and Loki himself has no plans to go hunting tonight; he does not want to separate himself from his son (who is, while very sweet and enthusiastic, also a galumphing great stallion and not the stealthiest of hunting companions). Besides which, right now the thought of eating makes him feel sick; he does not even know what foods might sustain him in his Jotun skin, and he has no wish to accidentally poison himself because his Asgardian stomach can handle something that his Jotun stomach cannot. He would need a fire for warmth, but what need has a frost giant of warmth? And a fire will very likely attract unwanted attention. If Loki must be banished to Vanaheim, then he is determined to make the experience as painless as possible, and that includes eluding the Vanir to the best of his ability. The Vanir are very similar to the Aesir, except in a few aesthetic qualities, and in that they are on the whole even more airheaded than those who dwell in Asgard, which is a difficult feat indeed. And they like to sing.

They like to sing a _lot_.

In the end he does not light a fire, which is just as well, considering that he realises later that without his magics or tinder he hasn’t the slightest idea how to go about lighting a fire anyway. He curls up in the cradle of his son’s eight hooves, lying among the roots of a knotty, sprawling willow, lulled to sleep by the slow rise and fall of Sleipnir’s chest.

That night he dreams of falling through infinity, until all the worlds pass him by. As he falls, his hair grows longer and longer, and his beard grows until it reaches past his toes, and it wraps around his throat and chokes him. He cries out but there is nobody to hear him. He falls forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Loki wakes up in the morning covered in a thin sheen of ice. His startled bellow wakes Sleipnir, who lets out his own exclamation of dismay before he realises what exactly had caused Loki’s reaction, at which point he eagerly begins to lick at the frost covering his parent’s face.

“Stop that,” snarls Loki, batting at his son’s nose to no avail. As he shifts about the ice cracks and splinters, falling to the ground like shards of glass. Sleipnir is very adept at avoiding his flailing, long tongue darting in to attack the ice in his ears, in his hair, at his collarbone, and before long Loki submits to the treatment in bad-tempered silence.

Once all the ice has melted – or been devoured – Loki’s skin is sticky and prickling with saliva. The urge to bathe is so strong that he has to restrain himself from stripping off all his clothes and sprinting naked through the woods towards the river. Instead he pulls himself to his feet and begins to stride swiftly but in full possession of his dignity towards the sound of rushing water, with Sleipnir delicately picking his way through the close-knit trees behind him.

They reach the river without incident, though the forest is still as dark as pitch, and the sun will not rise for another few hours at least. As a shapeshifter Loki would usually adjust his vision to that of an owl’s or a cat’s, but without his powers it seems that he is stuck with the eyes he already owns. He supposes he should be grateful that Jotunheim is a dark, miserable place, and that the Jotnar are well-renowned for their night vision, but he cannot bring himself to be grateful for anything about his Jotun form. Sleipnir’s vision does not function as well in the dark, but he has Loki to guide him, and so manages not to sprain a single one of his eight ankles.

Loki strips himself of his tunic and leggings quietly and efficiently, and hangs them up on a branch, so that Sleipnir will not trample on them accidentally. Even in the dark the river is noticeably purple, though now it seems more of a dark amethyst than the pale violet it was yesterday. The water is cool and refreshing when he steps into it, though he remembers it being almost intolerably cold – evidently the resistance to freezing temperatures is another unwanted legacy of his Jotun heritage. He washes himself swiftly, and then spends some time just floating on his back, watching the still-dark sky and the flaring, frightening radiance of Vanaheim’s stars.

Were he still travelling with his not-brother, he would expect to be interrupted by Thor diving into the water and trying to wrestle him, or declaring that the river was the territory of himself and the Warriors Three, and that Loki and Sif should fight them for it. In fact the last time he was here that is exactly what happened, except that Sif had refused to join in Thor’s ridiculous games and Loki had been forced to fight them alone, and had of course been soundly trounced. At the time it had been a source of resentment, but he recalls the memory now with a strange fondness. Those were simpler times. If he and Thor were still fighting only over pretend battlegrounds, and not real ones, he imagines that his life would be much easier.

A moment later he is broken from his reverie by what seems like a small tidal wave, but which is actually Sleipnir getting bored and deciding to join him in the water. Loki is swamped beneath the swell, and it takes him a few seconds to battle his way back up to the surface. He takes a great gulp of air and then starts to laugh helplessly, confronted with the sight of his eldest son frolicking in the river, looking like nothing so much as a puppy with eight hooves and a mane.

“You – you _lunatic_ horse!” he chokes out between guffaws, treading water madly in order to stay afloat in the suddenly turbulent water. He begins to wonder as to whether Sleipnir might not be related to Thor after all – he certainly seems to take after his not-uncle in everything but appearance. And even in appearance, he is at least equally as shiny as Thor. “Do you even know how to swim?”

Sleipnir sniffs haughtily, and quite pointedly paddles efficiently over to his parent, sending up great splashes of violet water in the process.

“Fine then, you know how to swim,” concedes Loki. “Where in all the realms did you learn that? I don’t suppose that Odin taught you.”

Sleipnir waves his head about as if to imply that the skill merely foisted itself upon him out of thin air. Loki lets out a huff of reluctant amusement, and swims carefully over to his son, clinging to his mane like a wet rat clinging to a drainpipe. He certainly looks like a wet rat – his long dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and he can feel purple water sticking to his eyelashes and dripping into his eyes.

Loki leans down and puts his mouth close to his son’s ear. “Race you to the other side,” he whispers, before launching himself away from Sleipnir’s neck and towards the opposite bank. Sleipnir lunges after him, eight legs thrashing maladroitly through the water, letting out an exultant, trumpeting call that reverberates through the trees.

Of course Sleipnir wins the race. The Jotnar are powerful creatures, and Loki is hardly lacking in muscle despite his small stature, but this body is unfamiliar to him, and he is working at a six leg disadvantage. So, naturally, Loki calls for a rematch. Sleipnir wins the next race as well, and the one after that, but after that Loki manages to beat him by a scant foot, and the races that follow are more or less split evenly between them.

By the time the sun begins to peek up over the mountains, Loki has managed to work up a hefty appetite. This presents a slight problem – he has no idea what sort of food makes up the customary diet of the Jotnar, nor if anything he might find on Vanaheim is even safe for him to eat.

He heaves himself up onto the mossy riverbank, and sits perched atop a rock, contemplating his predicament. Sleipnir manages to pull himself out of the water after a few false starts, and gives Loki an affectionate nudge. Loki turns to look at him and then stops dead, red eyes wide with disbelief.

Sleipnir’s hide, steaming slightly in the morning mists, is a vibrant lavender colour, far removed from his usual brilliant white. Loki had known that the river had staining qualities, but he had not expected this; the last time he was here he and his companions had only spent a few minutes in the water, rather than hours, and none of them had suffered any ill effects. He risks a quick glance at his own hands, but they seem unharmed – either his Jotun skin is hardier than Sleipnir’s, or the purple just doesn’t show up against the deep blue.

Sleipnir gives a somewhat concerned chirrup, and nudges Loki again. He cocks his head to the side inquisitively. The absurdity of Sleipnir’s fretful expression inserted upon on his terribly purple coat is all of a sudden too much for Loki, and he presses a hand against his mouth to stifle his giggles. This only serves to increase Sleipnir’s alarm, at least until he looks down at his legs and realises the cause of Loki’s mirth.

At that point he lets out a high-pitched shriek and begins to canter madly back and forth about the riverbank, kicking his legs up in distress. Loki can only assume that his son has gone temporarily mad, since he doesn’t see how this behaviour could possibly help to rectify the situation.

Loki covers his head in his hands. This is what happens when he entrusts the care and wellbeing of his son to a parent as wildly misguided as the Allfather. He should have expected it, really – any man who thinks that stealing a baby from a temple, disguising it as one of the Aesir and raising it as his own is acceptable parenting behaviour shouldn’t be trusted with a pot plant, much less a grandchild. He might as well have stolen a tiger cub and tried to disguise it as a sheep, insisting all along that its teeth were harmless, that it was certainly docile enough to harvest wool from. And then when it began to attack the flock – why, who could possibly have seen it coming?

Sometimes Loki thinks that he becomes slightly too invested in certain metaphors.

He risks a peek from behind his hands. Sleipnir has ceased his wild careening about, and is standing in a mess of felled and splintered trees, panting heavily and looking rather chagrined.

“Do you feel better now?” asks Loki dryly.

Sleipnir avoids his gaze, pawing the ground and tossing his head a little.

“That’s what I thought.”

Loki slides down from the rock he had been crouching on, and delivers a consoling pat to Sleipnir’s withers. Without another word, he turns back to the river, padding lightly through the disturbed soil, and retrieves his clothes from the branch they had been hanging from. He dresses quickly, and feels a tiny pang of relief at the sight of that sheer expanse of blue skin covered up again.

He walks to the edge of the bank, until the water is lapping at his toes, and gives the river a critical look. In the pale morning sunlight the violet water glows radiantly, the bright colour sharply contrasted against the verdure of the surrounding forest. From here he can catch glimpses of silvery fish flickering in and out of sight, occasionally lit by rays of light piercing the water.

Jotunheim has fish. Probably. Jotunheim probably has fish. It certainly has enough water bodies – most of the planet is water, though a great deal of it is frozen over. Still, Jotunheim has wolves, and giant ice-bears, and no vegetation to speak of – they must live on _something_. There were tales told in Loki’s youth of Jotnar who ate their own young, but he finds this idea to be highly unfeasible, especially considering that Jotun pregnancies often last for years at a time. It’s very likely, then, that his own Jotun stomach will be perfectly able to digest freshwater fish, even if they are captured in Vanaheim and not in the icy waters of his ancestors.

Mentally preparing himself for failure, he thrusts a hand into the water the next time he sees the glint of sunlight on silver scales. When he actually manages to catch the fish he is so shocked that he almost drops it again; luckily his reflexes are better than that, and he straightens up, pulling his catch out of the water. The fish wriggles wetly in his grasp, but cannot escape the cage of Jotun fingers. With a quick swipe of his claws the creature stops wriggling, and lies limp and dead in his hands, blank eyes staring out at nothing.

He wades out of the water, a little perplexed as to what he should do with the fish now that he has caught it. He still doesn’t have tinder to light a fire – but then again the Jotnar do not use fire at all, to his knowledge, which likely means that they eat their food raw.

Loki gives the fish a suspicious look, and raises it to his nose, sniffing cautiously. He blinks down at it in some surprise – it smells delicious.

Sleipnir gives him an encouraging (and somewhat condescending) whinny. Loki scowls at him, and deliberately bites into the fish. He chews and swallows, and then takes another bite.

It’s good. Rather surprisingly good, in fact – especially considering that he had not thought to remove the scales before eating it. In fact the scales are pleasantly crunchy, and his leathery mouth seems well equipped to withstand their sharp edges. Before he knows it he has eaten the whole fish, head and tail and all, and is striding back into the water to catch another one.

He returns to the bank with an armful of fish, wrapped in his tunic so that he doesn’t drop them. Seized by a sudden fiendish hunger, his stomach rumbling angrily, Loki attacks his haul with all the starved intensity of a man who has been deprived of food for weeks. (Loki has not been deprived of food for weeks, and even if he had it would not affect him so – that is, in his Asgardian body it would not affect him so. In Jotun form it seems he requires more regular sustenance.)

Though his catch of fish is at least half as large in mass as Loki himself, he somehow manages to swallow every last one of them down, which leads him to believe that his Jotun stomach is bigger on the inside. When he is done he flops back against the base of a tree with a satisfied sigh, cradling his slightly swollen belly. There are fish scales scattered all over him like glitter, and Sleipnir lets out a whinny that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

Loki glowers at him. He doesn’t care if Sleipnir judges him. He is a god. He can do what he likes, and if what he likes includes consuming half a river’s worth of fish then he’ll do it and nobody can stop him.

He hasn’t felt this well-fed in... well, ever. Which isn’t to say that he did not receive adequate sustenance in Asgard – the feasts of the Aesir are legendary. But he’s never felt the desire to gorge like this, never taken any particular pleasure in eating, not like Volstagg and Thor. The experience is entirely new, though not unpleasant.

Sleipnir lets out a sharp breath, suddenly, and straightens up, staring across the river. Loki frowns, turning to follow his son’s gaze, and then catches the faint but unmistakeable sounds of lilting Vanr fishing-songs, carried on the wind. A moment later his gaze lands upon the singers. There are two of them, with pointed ears, and skin the characteristic greenish tint of their people. Loki is torn between embarrassment and malicious glee – the Vanir are fishing in the river, but will have little luck, as Loki himself has already removed most of the fish from this particular water body.

Until now he had borne a feeble hope that he might survive his banishment without encountering any of the Vanir at all, but it seems that this is not to be the case. Hopefully they will not divine the cause of the mysterious lack of fish, and Loki and Sleipnir will be able to escape undetected. The Vanir are not a warlike people but they are highly obnoxious, and Loki does not at all intend to spend his banishment socialising. If he is to be exiled then he will do it properly. He has always enjoyed time alone to himself and his books – now is his chance to become a hermit. He suspects that Sleipnir will not make a very good hermit, but they can work on that.

Since the failed Chitauri invasion, Loki has had a lot of time to think over what went wrong, and he has come to the tentative conclusion that he thinks too much, and that this sometimes impedes the success of his cunning plots. (Of course, the Chitauri invasion is a bad example, considering that even in his own mind he is still not entirely sure whether he was acting in his own interests or only out of fear of the Other – though the two are not mutually exclusive. Still, the same rationale could be applied to any of his previous exploits.) What happens next lends a certain amount of credence to that theory.

“Ho there!” calls the taller of the Vanir, cupping her hands around her mouth and shouting across the river. “What is your name, good sir?”

Thwarted again! He should have left while he had the chance – now that they have spotted him, he has only one recourse left available to him.

Loki stands dead still, hoping that if he does not move an inch then the Vanir will mistake him for a strangely-shaped shrub, and leave him alone. He has been the rejected prince of two realms and the rejected Glorious Overlord of another – he does not wish to converse with lowly fishermen, and Vanir fishermen at that. He has better things to do with his time. Like eat fish.

Sleipnir prances on the spot, and whinnies loudly. Loki ceases pretending to be a shrub in favour of glaring at his son.

“You ruined it,” he hisses quietly, and then turns around to see that the Vanir are both wading through the river towards them, fishing lines hoisted over their shoulders and welcoming smiles on their greenish lips.

Loki raises his gaze to the heavens, and sends a silent curse out to Odin Allfather.

“Greetings!” says the taller Vanr, when she and her companion reach the riverbank. “We don’t get many Jotnar in these parts. Are you on a quest?”

“No,” says Loki. “I haven’t been questing in years.” In his life he has had a fraught relationship with questing. He doesn’t have any problems with it in principle – there are many rare books and artefacts scattered across the realms that he would dearly love to get his hands on – but he always seemed to end up on the quests that _Thor_ wanted to be on, and not the ones that he himself was interested in. Thus the weapons vault of Asgard is full of items such as the Gigantic Broadsword of Mímir the Wise, the Impenetrable Armour of Ultimate Power, and the Omnipotent Gauntlets of This-That-and-the-Other, and not with anything of actual consequence – barring the Casket of Ancient Winters. Loki sighs. “I don’t believe I shall ever go questing again.”

“Then what brings you to our fine realm?” asks the second Vanr, whose voice is slightly higher pitched.

“I am banished,” says Loki shortly.

“Banished from Jotunheim!” cries the taller Vanr in surprise, “why, then we must perform the Song of Mourning For Your Homeland, and the Song of Magnificent Welcome Unto the Realm of Vanaheim!”

At that the two Vanir burst into song, the taller naturally taking the melody and the smaller taking the harmony. The song ululates wildly, shifting from one key into another, and is accompanied by a strange shuffling two-step. Loki feels a strong urge to bash his head against the nearest tree, but manages to refrain from doing so.

“Well,” he says rather weakly, when they are finished, “that was certainly... something.” He cannot bring himself to thank them, but they seem to interpret it as thanks regardless.

“You are certainly welcome, marvellous sir,” says the smaller Vanr, beaming widely. “I hope you enjoy your stay in our splendid realm, however long it may be!”

Loki gives an aborted shrug. “I will probably be here for some time,” he admits, “the circumstances of my banishment being what they are.”

“Well, if you had to be banished, at least you were banished to Vanaheim,” says the taller Vanr, rather proudly and not at all helpfully. “You must join us for dinner!”

Wait. What?

“Yes, indeed!” says the smaller Vanr, now bouncing up and down a little in excitement. She claps her hands together. “Oh, but we have not even introduced ourselves! Frolli – we must perform the Song of Introduction and Great Pleasure at the Acquisition of Knowledge!”

And then they are right back where they started, with the two Vanir chanting and dancing and clapping in a loose circle around an increasingly unimpressed Loki. The song is largely lost on him, but he gathers that their names are Molli and Frolli, and that they are married, and that they live a short distance upriver in a small cottage surrounded by yellow flowers.

It’s a very detailed song.

At the end of it the taller Vanr – Frolli – grins at him, and clasps her stubby little hands together in a gesture of greeting. “And what is your name, good sir?”

“I am Loki,” he says. He does not offer a patronymic, nor a homeland; they have already assumed that he hails from Jotunheim, and informing them otherwise would require a great deal of explanation that he is unwilling to give.

“I am glad to meet you, Loki,” says Frolli. She turns to Sleipnir, seemingly unfazed by his ridiculously purple coat; he seems surprised but unbothered by the attention. “And who is this?”

“This is Sleipnir,” says Loki. “My son.”

“That’s a new one,” says Molli, though she doesn’t look at all perturbed. She eyes Sleipnir with interest, and then says, “I am glad to meet you, Sleipnir Lokison.”

“Svaðilfarison,” Loki corrects. Molli only nods.

“Where are you staying while you are here?” asks Frolli, looking a little worried. “The Forest of the Undying Hunt can be dangerous for the unwary.”

Loki shrugs, and gestures to the trees behind him. “Here and there,” he says. “We only arrived yesterday.”

Frolli lifts a hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh, that won’t do at all! We have a number of spare rooms – or a stable, if your son would prefer it. Please consider staying with us – at least until you put roots down – I would not be able to sleep thinking of a poor Jotun wandering through the forest in the long-night.”

A poor Jotun – the Vanir certainly have a different view of the Jotnar than that held by the Aesir. Having met the Jotnar Loki is inclined to believe the Asgardian view. Jotunheim is a desolate place and those who dwell there are equally as monstrous as their environment.

“Are you in the habit of offering your rooms to perfect strangers?” asks Loki, amazed. “No, I could not possibly. But I thank you for the offer.” The Vanir are a more gullible people than he had thought; Molli and Frolli already know that he is banished, and they must have surmised that he is a criminal, and yet they still offer hospitality.

“Please,” says Frolli again. “If only for one long-night, and then we may help you find a place of your own, if you so desire. You were lucky enough to survive until now, and I cannot bear the thought of the frumpkins and bilgesnipes gnawing on your poor dear corpse.”

Sleipnir lets out a little moan of distress. Loki’s eyes flicker to his son, and he sighs internally; he knows that the decision is already made.

“All right, then,” he says. “I thank you for your generosity.” He hesitates. “I could help you catch some fish, if you like...?”

“Oh, yes, please!” exclaims Molli. “We haven’t been having any luck today – it’s as if the fish have disappeared entirely into thin air.”

Loki keeps his face blank with a little effort.

They spend the next couple of hours catching all the remaining fish in the river, with Molli and Frolli’s fishing lines and with nets that they had brought in their knapsacks. Loki spends the first half hour absolutely miserable, and wondering how he had possibly got himself into this mess – he is hardly the most sociable of creatures, and the Vanir’s propensity for babbling gets on his nerves. Then Molli makes an offhand comment that draws them into a long and involved conversation about thaumaturgical philosophy, with Frolli pitching in occasionally to offer some pithy comment, and Loki realises that the Vanir are – while quite obnoxious and far too fond of singing and dancing – in possession of furious intellects that rival his own, and a thirst for knowledge the likes of which no Asgardian has ever felt. The discovery is staggering, and he finds himself warming to the discussion, enjoying the parries and thrusts of Molli’s sharp wit. After that the conversation flows much easier.

Perhaps, Loki thinks, finding a place for himself will not be so difficult after all.

Asgard has a very shallow notion of philosophy, and a very sketchy idea of what constitutes good education. It venerates warriors, not scholars or teachers. For a thousand years Asgard has waged war after war, and the elders and intellectuals have devoted themselves to strategy rather than to history. Asgard is a static, stagnant culture, and Loki has always known that to try to transform it alone would be futile. Instead he looked to Jotunheim, and to Midgard, and to the realms in the shadow places; he had thought to expand Asgard’s empire, to defeat its enemies and find new allies, and in doing so create a kind of cross-cultural influence that might finally widen the horizons of those ancient Aesir. He has learnt the hard way that this, too, was futile. Asgard is too set in its ways – revolution, if it will ever come, will be gradual, emerging from its existing structures and traditions. He cannot sweep away all that has ever been and begin anew, or else he will only destroy that which he strives to protect.

Loki had never wanted to be king. He knows, now, that he was not made for kingship. Monsters were never meant to rule.

That night he and Sleipnir follow the Vanir upriver, to a little house surrounded by clumps of golden flowers. Much of the house is underground, spread out through rabbit-like warrens, with small lanterns hung up in every nook and cranny so that the house looks like a nest of fireflies. They sleep beneath the earth, Loki appreciating the security of being surrounded by tonnes of packed dirt, and Sleipnir doubtful about the location but enthused to sleep indoors for the first time since he was a colt. (Odin’s stables are luxurious, but they let in an awful draft.)

When the morning rolls around Loki is reluctant to leave – even more so when he learns that the Vanir’s idea of a good breakfast is raw fish accompanied by various fruits. Molli can’t cook to save her life, but Frolli creates concoctions so unutterably luscious that Loki is convinced there is sorcery involved.

So he stays.

Somehow over the next few weeks the topic of him leaving never seems to come up, and the thought does not cross his mind again. Molli and Frolli are gracious hosts, happy to join him for meals or for fierce philosophical debates, or to keep their own company when Loki desires solitude. Loki keeps waiting for the catch, for the Vanir to turn around and betray him in some unpredictable way, or for the Allfather to come down to Vanaheim and declare that he has changed his mind and that Loki is to be executed after all, or that he had forgotten to reveal some other monstrous facet of Loki’s identity – that Loki is part bilgesnipe, or the child of an even greater enemy.

And yet the catch never comes. For the first time in his life it seems that there isn’t a catch. He cannot quite bring himself to take the Vanir at their word, to trust them entirely, but he stops looking over his shoulder all the time, and no longer fears the shadows.

During the days he helps with the fishing, and in the evenings he and Sleipnir will curl up in the library and Loki will read a book aloud, or they will explore the forest, or Loki will teach him histories and magical theorems. (Odin might have stripped him of the ability to put such theorems into practice, but he still knows how things _work_.) In the mornings when Molli and Frolli take their fish to the market, Loki helps to straighten up the house, occasionally preparing food for them when they return.

A balance begins to form. Eventually the weeks stretch into months, and the months into years, and Loki has settled into his own little universe of Sleipnir and Frolli and Molli and the forest.

He should have known that it would not last.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some violence in this chapter.

For a very long time now Frolli and Molli have been attempting to convince Loki to come with them to the market. Their efforts have been in vain, since Loki is entirely uninterested in meeting any others of the Vanir, and as a rule he prefers the solitude of the forest to the hustle and bustle of the city, no matter that he is supposedly the god of chaos. He prefers chaos to be on his own terms. His hosts have all but given up on convincing him – that is until Frolli mentions that there is a library in the city, the biggest library in the whole of Vanaheim, and after that wild frost giants could not prevent Loki from accompanying them into town. Somehow they manage to extract a promise from Sleipnir to carry their wares, and so the next morning the whole lot of them all leave for the city.

Sleipnir is still extremely purple. From what Loki understands of the river water, the colour should not be permanent, except that for the past few years Sleipnir has been returning to the river often and so the colour has not had the chance to wear off. By this point Loki has resigned himself to having a permanently purple son. It doesn’t bother him overly – in terms of rebelling against one’s parents Sleipnir could have done much worse than turning himself purple. As yet he hasn’t tried to destroy any of the Nine Realms, so Loki’s counting it as a win.

They leave before dawn, though not very early; the nights on Vanaheim are very long all throughout the year, and the sky only begins to lighten after they reach the city gates, a couple of hours before noon. They part ways there, with Molli and Frolli departing for the market, a heavily laden Sleipnir in tow, and Loki proceeding to the library, arranging to meet up again in the city square after they have completed their business.

As promised, the library is the biggest that he has ever seen – bigger than any on Midgard, or Alfheim, and certainly bigger than any of the paltry libraries that Asgard has to offer. It’s the largest building in the city, bigger even than the castle that sits on the mountaintop, and there are many floors both above and under the ground, with various wings denoting different genres. The section devoted to history alone is at least half as large as the whole palace of Asgard. For an embarrassingly long time Loki is genuinely terrified that he has died and gone to Valhalla. (He hasn’t.)

And then he finds the section on magical theory, and maybe blacks out a little bit.

He comes to buried in a sea of rare books, face covered in ink, feeling a kind of joy that, in a thousand years, he has never once experienced before. It feels as if his heart is a bird trying to flutter its way out of his chest. Vanaheim’s library holds books that he has only ever heard of in stories, books that he has never heard of before at all. Even separated from his powers as he is, he can _feel_ the glow of magic suffusing the shelves, radiating warmth. He feels like he’s come home.

To borrow books from the library you must be a citizen of Vanaheim, which Loki is not; however the books are free for anyone to read so long as they do not leave their archives. The library is full of little hideaways containing comfortable armchairs, piles of cushions, beds, and in one rather bizarrely designed wing a set of baths surrounded by waterproofed books. Loki doesn’t try to read in one of the baths, but he does find a very fluffy rug to curl up on. He doesn’t know where to start – there are too many books, too many choices. He wonders vaguely if the librarians would mind if he moved permanently into this room. Theoretically he wouldn’t need to eat that often – he knows that his Jotun body must eat more frequently than his Asgardian one, but there is a plum tree in one of the library’s courtyards and he has always loved plums. A diet of plums and books sounds very appealing to him.

Mid-afternoon finds him in a structure that looks something like a fort; he had tried to narrow down his choices but had eventually given up, and is now surrounded by high walls of books piled on top of each other. It had become rather a cunning feat of architecture once he remembered that he needed gaps to breathe through, and some kind of doorway to allow him to go out and look up obscure references. The fort now has three lofty towers, each with battlements and arrowslits for airflow (and in the case of an emergency, to shoot arrows out of – Loki does not presently own a bow but he’s sure that he could fashion one out of the furniture should the need arise). It also has a rather intricate portcullis that allows him to leave and seek out dictionaries or reference works.

His only concern is that Sleipnir would not be able to fit through the aisles, but he’s certain that they would be able to work something out. Sleipnir has always loved being read to, though he finds it difficult to read himself, considering the lack of opposable thumbs.

Occasionally others will pass by him, greeting him or complimenting the structural integrity of his book-fort. In Asgard nobody ever complimented him on his book-forts. Loki curses himself for not having spent more time in Vanaheim in his youth – damn Thor and his blasted goats!

Perhaps the Allfather knew what he was doing, when he sent him here. And yet Loki has not regained his powers, so he presumes that there is some kind of lesson that he has not yet learnt. In Thor’s case that lesson had been humility and compassion – but what of Loki? Loki, like Thor, had invaded a realm that was not his own, and begun a war that he was not ready to fight, but Loki had never possessed Thor’s brashness, his foolishness. They are alike only in their cruelty.

The war with Jotunheim had ended when Loki had murdered their king. He hears that the throne has been taken by Laufey’s eldest son, Helblindi, and he does not know quite what to think of that. He knew already that he had kin in Jotunheim, but he has no particular wish to seek them out; they are, after all, Jotnar, and he doubts that they would appreciate meeting the foul creature who directed the Bifrost against them.

The war with Midgard had ended with the decimation of the Chitauri’s forces, and the capture of Loki. He does not regret the defeat of the Chitauri – Loki has no master, and his interest in cooperating with the Other had been rooted in his quarrel with the house of Odin, in the thought that he could prove himself, succeed on Midgard when his assault on Jotunheim had failed. Midgard had surprised him, he will admit that. They would have made a poor colony, but they make a worthy ally; Loki supposes that Asgard has gained something from his treachery after all.

Vanaheim has not been at war for thousands of years. Their people are scholars and farmers, not warriors. There is no stagnant and eternal king, no Allfather. Instead there is a custodian elected once every century, and a grand council consisting of Vanir who have proved themselves worthy to hold political office. Loki has never sought to know of the politics of Vanaheim before – indeed he has never had the chance, considering that the Aesir do not pay attention to such things and so there is no literature about it to be found anywhere in Asgard – but now he finds himself swallowing knowledge as if it is ambrosia. Magical theory, thaumaturgy, scientific exploration, philosophy, engineering, and history, a comprehensive history of all the Nine Realms. There is more information contained in this one place than Loki has ever seen before in his life. The Vanir are known for producing seers and sorcerers, and they are often to be found traversing the realms in search of enlightenment. The Aesir tend only to leave Asgard for matters of war, or for magnificent quests that will shower their warriors with glory and fill Odin’s coffers with stolen wealth.

Enshrined behind a wall of books, Loki manages to lose track of time entirely. He only realises how long he has spent in the library when the sound of the night-chants begins to echo through the library, guided by the clanging of the city bells. By now the night-chants are intimately familiar to him, and he joins in by habit, singing softly under his breath to greet the encroaching darkness. (He would not say that he has entirely adopted the Vanir’s musical culture; he still finds some of the songs – such as the Song of Excusing One’s Flatulence – almost too ridiculous to bear. Still, there is a great and very old beauty in the night-chants.)

The market-keepers will not be packing up their wares yet, so he still has some time before he will have to leave to meet the others. Still, he should probably start putting some of the books away. The market is most of the way across the city, and it will take him a long time to walk over. He eyes his book-fort with some regret, and begins to dismantle it. He is half finished when he notices something in the corner of his eye, and pauses.

There is something... something hidden in the shadows of the room, something flickering in and out of his awareness. Very slowly, Loki lowers himself into a crouch, concealing himself behind the partly disassembled wall of books. The fact that he has company is not unusual in and of itself – the library is, after all, open to the public, and people have been walking in and out all day. Nor is it unusual that the stranger possesses magic, since many of the Vanir are themselves sorcerers of one kind or another, and in the archive devoted to magical theory it makes sense that Loki should encounter fellow magic-workers. No: what makes this person unusual is that they are hiding, and that they are doing so with magics that are entirely unfamiliar to him. No Vanr or innocent visitor has any reason to hide.

If he concentrates very hard, Loki can just barely make out a hazy, indistinct figure slipping in and out between the shelves. Here and there the stranger will remove a book and either toss it aside or tuck it into a sack that is similarly disguised. The shadow leaves the room, and Loki follows it down a flight of stairs and into the neighbouring archive. His suspicions are confirmed; to borrow a book one must call up one of the librarians, and the books may not otherwise be removed from their rooms. Loki feels a distant, burning anger, like the rumbling of a volcano. This stranger is threatening _books_.

This is wholly unacceptable.

He slinks up behind the shadow, being careful to keep it in the corner of his eye, since when he looks at it straight on he gives himself a headache. The magics are strong, but they are no match for Jotun eyes; the sorcerer probably counted upon the famous penchant of the Vanir for short-sightedness.

“Ho, stranger,” says Loki quietly, once he is right behind the creature.

The thief startles and whirls around, dropping the sack of stolen books. Loki makes a grab for the shadow but misses, distracted by the pounding behind his eyes, and the shimmery, oil-on-water quality of the illusion. The stranger quickly takes advantage of his weakness and throws a sharp kick at his belly, knocking him off-kilter, before snatching up the sack and making for the stairwell. Loki gasps and clutches his stomach for a moment, then immediately sets off in pursuit.

He catches up to the thief at the base of the stairs. The illusion is already starting to fail, and beneath it he glimpses a slim body clad in green, with golden hair. The thief is fast, but Loki is faster. He tackles her to the ground and the sack goes skidding off across the floor; she scrabbles for it but is impeded by Loki sitting on top of her. She snarls in frustration, and before Loki knows what is happening she has reached into her belt and pulled out a blade. In one smooth, whip-sharp moment she thrusts it into his chest, and then wriggles out from beneath him. Loki slumps to the ground, blue blood seeping beneath his fingers, and he dazedly watches her retrieve the sack and then dash off towards the exit.

A few librarians have noticed the commotion, and moments later the alarm is sounded, and Vanir begin to rush to Loki’s aid, but by then it is too late. The thief is gone, and with her the books are gone also. Loki has failed.

He remembers the next few minutes in blurred, confusing flashes of colour and sound. The blood spilling from his chest is a bright sapphire hue, lighter and more beautiful than his tough skin. There is a Vanr leaning over him, shouting something garbled and unintelligible, and then that Vanr is pushed aside to be replaced by another, who begins to weave complex enchantments over the wound. The spells appear as thin gold ribbons, sinking into Loki’s chest.

He does not feel the pain. He only feels cold.

He closes his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Loki wakes in increments, slowly emerging from a dream that he cannot recall the details of. There is a soft golden light hovering all around him, and a rustling of clothing and footsteps. He is not alone. 

“Who are you?” he croaks, opening his eyes and immediately closing them again. The light is brighter than he had thought it to be, and he catches a glimpse of a simple, marble-walled room and a tall figure clad in brown before he has to look away.

Abruptly he remembers the circumstances that brought him here, and his hand flies up to his chest. There is a bandage wrapped around his torso, but the wound does not hurt when he prods at it. Either it’s healed already or they’ve got him on the _really_ good drugs.

He doesn’t feel drugged, so he’ll go with the magical healing powers.

“I am Ellin,” says the healer – for it must be a healer – in a carefully gentle tone. At least he didn’t introduce himself in song, which is rare for the Vanir. Maybe healers are exempt from their bizarre musical rituals. “Can you tell me your name?”

Unsaid but obvious within that sentence is: do you remember your name? Loki may be wounded, but he is not an idiot. He bridles, and snaps, “I am Loki.” He resists the urge to add ‘of Asgard’ – he lost that right when the Allfather banished him. “How long have I been here?”

“Only an hour,” replies Ellin. “You were rather dangerously wounded when you were brought to me, but luckily one of the librarians has medical training and was able to slow the bleeding. It’s healed now, but you should keep the bandage on for at least a week to prevent the wound from becoming infected.”

Loki is not a child. He knows how to take care of a stab wound. Still, he is somewhat impressed. Asgard considers itself fairly proficient in the healing arts, but Vanaheim is far and away more advanced, partly due to the larger population of sorcerers. If he were in Asgard Loki probably would have bled out in the library, and if he had not then the wound would have taken much longer to heal. Of course, if Loki were in Asgard then he would still have his magic, and would be able to heal himself.

He risks opening his eyes again, cracking them open very slowly so that they may adjust to the light. Ellin’s face swims into focus before him; the Vanr has soft, androgynous features, and a long black braid that falls most of the way down his back. His ears are pierced, with large gold hoops in the lobes and small studs decorating the pointed tips. Loki is fascinated despite himself – before now he had encountered the practice only on Midgard, though he knows that in theory the Jotnar also practice similar forms of self-decoration. He has never seen it, though, since Jotun warriors tend to abstain from the custom as it may prove a liability in battle, and Loki has never met a Jotun civilian.

“I shall now perform the Song of Good Bone Structure, No Not That Kind of Bone, followed by the Song of Preventing Your Bandages From Getting Wet in the Bath,” says Ellin evenly. So the healers aren’t exempt after all. Loki buries his face in the pillow and resists the urge to smother himself. Ellin has a mellow singing voice, and he moves in a graceful, stately way, as if his spine is a willow branch. When he’s done he retakes his position by Loki’s bedside and gives him an expectant look.

Loki scowls at him.

“There’s some people who’d like to talk to you, if that’s alright,” says Ellin.

Loki glares at him suspiciously. “Who?”

“Watchmen,” says Ellin, and then, at Loki’s alarmed expression, “They’d like to ask you about the person who did this to you. You’re not in trouble, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” says Loki.

Ellin only smiles at him.

“Fine,” Loki sniffs. “Let them in.” If the City Watch thinks that they can catch the book thief, by all means let them. If Loki were still in full possession of his powers he would find the filthy creature in mere moments, but Loki does not have his powers and so the fiend escaped, and must be brought to justice. The thought evokes a helpless, frustrated fury within his breast. Loki may have tried to destroy the whole of Jotunheim, and killed and enslaved countless Midgardian mortals, but this brute has stolen _books_ and that is a crime he will not tolerate. Is nothing sacred?

The watchmen enter the room, and Loki eyes them balefully. They do not look very capable of finding or subduing his attacker; they are both rather unassuming creatures, wearing neat green uniforms that clash horribly with their green skin. They perform a perfunctory Song of Introduction and Great Pleasure at the Acquisition of Knowledge and introduce themselves as Sergeant Merrick and Constable Something-or-other. (Loki’s recovering from a stab wound, okay. He’s not in the most alert of moods right now, and the singing is distracting.)

“Can you give us any details about your attacker? Any identifying features?” asks Constable Something-or-other. He’s holding a notebook and a quill. An actual quill. The Vanir still use quills?

“Er,” says Loki. He blinks. “She was blonde. About my height. Skilled at sorcery and at hand-to-hand combat.” It’s woefully little, he knows. “She... I don’t think she was one of the Vanir.”

He’s not used to this sort of thing. Asgard does not have a police force as such – to his knowledge, Loki is the only one who has ever been able to hide himself from Heimdall, and so there is little need for investigation when crimes are committed. As to trialling criminals – Odin serves as judge, jury and, if need be, executioner when the situation calls for it. The only kind of law enforcement they have is the palace guards, and the guards are purely defensive.

“We know this is difficult, sir, but any information you have could be useful. Can you hazard a guess as to where she was from?” asks Sergeant Merrick. Something-or-other is scribbling notes furiously, despite the fact that Loki hasn’t actually told him much.

Loki shrugs. “She could have been from anywhere. Pale skin, the usual amount of limbs. Her magic felt... wrong. I don’t think she was Asgardian. But she could have been from Midgard, or Álfheim, or Svartálfaheim. She didn’t look elfish but she was wearing a glamour – she might have been wearing another glamour beneath it.”

The watchmen nod to each other, and instead of thanking him and leaving they promptly perform the Song of Great Thanks for Assisting With a Police Investigation. In Loki’s opinion the Vanir need to learn to be concise.

“If you remember anything more, or if you see her again, please let us know,” says Sergeant Merrick finally. “We think she might have a connection to a string of robberies from museums in the area, and if that’s the case then she’s killed twelve people already.”

First books, and then museums?

Loki really doesn’t like this person.

Oh, and murder too – but as Loki is a murderer himself he can hardly judge her for that. But even Loki in all his rage never stooped to attacking libraries or museums. That takes a depth of villainy that he does not believe himself to be capable of.

“Tell me her name,” he says.

The watchmen look at each other, and Sergeant Merrick shakes his head slightly.

“Contact us if you need to,” says Merrick, and turns to leave.

Only after they are gone does Loki realise that neither of them commented on his appearance even once. Well – he has learnt already that the Vanir have no quarrel with the Jotnar. There might have been a problem had they known he was from Asgard – the Aesir and the Vanir have not warred in thousands of years, but the Vanir have long memories.

Ellin releases him from the Healing Room with a reminder to take care of his bandages, and Loki stiffly makes his way out into the street. His borrowed tunic itches horribly; his own tunic had been ruined with blue Jotun blood, and Ellin had been kind enough to give Loki one of his own. It’s dark as pitch outside but it’s still not that late. With luck the market will still be about, and Molli and Frolli and his son will not yet have cause to be worried about him.

As it turns out the Healing Room is closer to the market square than the library is, and Loki manages to make it over there in short time. The market is bustling not only with Vanir but with Álfar, with Svartálfar, with light elves and dark elves and dwarves and all kinds of giants – well, almost all; Loki has yet to see a frost giant other than himself. Jotnar tend to prefer colder climates. Loki, of course, was raised in Asgard, and so the climate of Vanaheim is actually cooler than what he’s used to.

The tents are laid out in neat rows, woven from thick, vibrant canvas in every colour imaginable. There are tiny lanterns strung up all across the square, sending dancing, flickering shadows arcing out over the cobblestones. The stallkeepers are selling bread and fish and mulled wine, tiny ornaments carved from wood, soaps, perfumes, delicate pastries, clothes, shoes, musical instruments – a _lot_ of musical instruments – and best of all: books. To his surprise, and despite his stab wound, Loki finds that he is enjoying himself. He buys a tart from a vendor and wanders about the stalls, keeping an eye out for his son. (He keeps an eye out for Molli and Frolli too, of course, but there are a great many stalls selling fish, and only one hulking eight-legged warhorse.)

He finds them tucked away in a corner of a market square. Molli and Frolli have sold most of their fish, and have bought some bread and cheeses to take home with them. Sleipnir has flowers woven into his mane and tail and a thick garland of flowers hanging off his huge, corded, _purple_ neck. The sight should be ridiculous, and, well, it is ridiculous. Loki doesn’t mind. He’s fully capable of supporting his son in his, ah, purpleness. Warhorse or no warhorse, purple or no purple, these things have no bearing on his love for his (slightly deranged) child. In his own youth he did much crazier things. Like getting pregnant with horse babies.

“Hail, friends,” he greets them. Molli gasps and stands up from her chair, and Frolli’s eyes go very wide. Sleipnir lets out a distressed whinny.

“Loki, darling,” says Molli carefully, for once in her life foregoing the Song of Greeting and Great Pleasure At Your Presence, “what in Hel’s name happened to your chest?”

Loki looks down, and realises that his bandages are visible beneath the low neckline of his borrowed tunic. He feels awkward in the misstep – he had not intended to inform his companions of the events at the library, and his failure to apprehend the perpetrator; nor had he intended to allow Sleipnir to glimpse that he had been injured until the wound was completely healed. “Er,” he says. “There was an... incident.”

“An _incident_ that ended with you receiving severe chest trauma?” clarifies Frolli.

“Yes,” he says. “That kind of incident.”

She puts her head in her hands.

“As long as you’re all right,” says Molli to Loki, stroking comforting circles over her wife’s shoulders. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he says again, somewhat at a loss.

“Who attacked you?” asks Frolli, gnashing her teeth. Her eyes are glistening darkly. “Did you kill them?”

“No, she’s alive,” says Loki. “Not for long, perhaps. The City Watch is after her. She’s a book thief and a murderer.”

Molli and Frolli exchange a meaningful glance at that, and Loki’s brow furrows. He knows that the book thief has apparently been conducting her criminal activities for some time, and his Vanir hosts are in the market every morning and sometimes the afternoon as well, with their fingers on the pulse of the capital. Any gossip that reaches the city goes through them first.

“Loki, this woman is very dangerous,” says Molli quietly. “You must listen to me. She is not of the Vanir. She is an Asgardian, and she is steeped in foul magics. Stolen magics, ones that you have not encountered before and that you have no defence against. You must promise me that you will not go after her.”

Loki puts a hand to his chest, and the lowers it again. He thinks of the library, that enormous, holy place, filled with everything he has ever dreamed of. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I’m afraid I can’t promise you that.”

Molli looks saddened but not surprised. “Then at least do not go after her alone,” she says. “We can help you. Your _son_ can help you.” (Sleipnir whinnies loudly in vehement agreement.) “The City Watch can help you. Don’t... don’t lose yourself in another vendetta.”

That takes the breath out of him for a moment. Molli knows his history – not the details of it, but enough that she has a good idea of what has befallen him, and the destruction he has wreaked in return. He trusts her, with his life if not with his heart.

“All right,” he says, the words tearing themselves out of him. “All right. I won’t go alone.”

She nods, slowly. “Thank you. Have a fish.”

She shoves a fish into his hands and he eats it without protest.

“If you want to defeat the Enchantress,” says Frolli determinedly, “you must learn everything you can about her. Learn her weaknesses. Learn her strengths. You are without your magic, and that puts you at a disadvantage. Overcome it.”

“I will,” he assures her.

“Speak to Pollo,” says Molli, pointing out a squat little man standing beside a stall stocked with various brass artefacts. “He works at the Museum of Thaumaturgical Relics and Splendorous Sorceries. He knows the one you seek. And Loki,” she adds, catching his arm as he moves to walk away, “be careful.”

“When am I not careful?” he asks, smiling at her.

“All the damn time,” she replies frankly.

He shrugs insouciantly, and catches Sleipnir’s garland of flowers, pulling his son’s great head closer to his own. “Come, dear,” he says brightly, “you can be my muscle.”

Sleipnir puffs himself up, looking as menacing as a twenty-five hand tall bright purple warhorse can possibly look. (Perhaps surprisingly, it is actually a little bit menacing. But only a little bit.)

Loki beams widely and pecks his son on the nose. The market lights are soft and radiant, the night is long, and he has a suspect to interrogate.

Things are looking up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some violence in this chapter.

His enemy’s name is Amora.

She was born of Asgard, though not to Asgardian parents. She has not been heard of for a thousand years or more, until now. She had been assumed to be dead, and from what Loki can tell it seems that nobody in all the Nine Realms grieved for her loss. (He would find himself beginning to pity her, if she were not a _book thief_. As it is he has no sympathy.)

Her name is Amora and she has stolen three of the Norn Stones.

Loki knows enough about the Norn Stones to know that this is the point at which he should be _fucking terrified_ , and also terribly grateful that she doesn’t seem to know how to use them properly yet. Had she been properly trained in the use of the stones Loki would have been vapourised within moments of evoking her ire – fuck, the whole library could have been razed to the ground, had she wished it. The stones are items of great mystical power. They once belonged to the sorceress Karnilla, and they were spread throughout the realms so that they could never be used on conjunction with one another. They should have been destroyed. Such items are too tempting to leave intact.

Loki can’t decide whether to be glad or concerned about Amora’s obvious unfamiliarity with the stones. On the one hand it means that she can’t yet use them to their full potential, but on the other hand the Norn Stones are very dangerous things to leave in the hands of an experienced sorcerer, let alone an inexperienced one. And it seems that she is already correcting her ignorance – for what other reason would she be stealing books from the library of Vanaheim, the best repository of thaumaturgical theory in all the worlds?

From what the marketkeepers could tell him, Amora has been terrorising Vanaheim for nigh on a year now. Before that, she was in Muspelheim, and before that Niflheim, and before that, presumably, she was in Asgard. She has stolen each of the Norn Stones that belong to those realms, and if she is even remotely the sorcerer that Loki thinks she is, she will soon steal the Norn Stone that belongs to Vanaheim. She is dangerously close to divining its location, and once she has it there will be nothing tying her to Vanaheim any longer.

So, naturally, Loki must be the one to find the stone first.

He has an inkling as to where to start. Amora did not steal all of the books that might have been useful to her, and the ones that remain give him a good idea of the stone’s location. There is a cave system of great spiritual significance not far from here, hidden in the mountains, and Loki is fairly certain that he will find Vanaheim’s Norn Stone there. The problem, of course, is not merely _finding_ the stone – it is _capturing_ it. The defences laid around the Norn Stones are legendary, and without his powers Loki has no hope of retrieving it himself. He can, however, hope to prevent Amora from retrieving it. If he can lay in wait for her at the caves and catch her by surprise, he stands a chance of facilitating her arrest and rescuing the books that she has stolen.  (And thwarting her vile plans, of course, though as yet he is not quite certain what those plans actually are. Still, she is stealing the Norn Stones, and has three of the nine already. It goes without saying that her intentions are anything but good.)

At Molli and Frolli’s insistence, he does not go to the caves alone, nor does he leave immediately, though time is of the essence. He spares the time to gather camping materials and enough supplies to last him and Sleipnir at least a fortnight; then with no small amount of trepidation he approaches the City Watch and informs them of what he has learnt concerning the Enchantress and how he plans to defeat her. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they are sceptical of the validity of his information. Loki can admit even to himself that the story sounds a little wild. The Norn Stones, after all, are objects of myth and fantasy, and many believe that they are not real, though their existence has been documented in many admirable historical and magical works. Coming from a Jotun hermit it must seem even more far-fetched.

Despite their misgivings, though, the City Watch sends two constables to assist in his ambush, just in case it proves to be successful. One of them is very small and very wide, and his name is Mako. The other is very tall and very thin and her name is Lillith. They seem nice enough, if a little stern, and a little laconic. They bring their own tents.

They set up camp just inside the mouth of the caves, hidden enough that their presence will not immediately be detected but close enough to the entrance that the Enchantress will not be able to sneak by them. Loki spends the first day exploring the caves, to be sure that they are in the right place – of course, it doesn’t matter if they are in the right place so much as if _Amora_ thinks that they are in the right place. Still, he would like to be sure.

It takes him a matter of mere hours to find the Norn Stone. He may have lost his powers, but he still has a sense for these things, and the magics laid about it scream their presence to any sorcerer that comes near them. He cannot get close to the stone. There is a very nasty spell that would turn his bones into dust if he attempted to get near it. Beneath that is another spell that would burn him to death, and beneath _that_ is a spell that would send a torrent of acid pouring from the ceiling. The stone itself is buried very deep beneath the cave floor, hidden in an oaken trunk that is bewitched to open only to someone with peaceful intentions. The peaceful-intentions spell is an old one, and one that Amora will undoubtedly have no trouble breaking despite her exceedingly poor intentions. Still, if he can stop Amora before she gets close to it then he won’t have to worry about the fate of the Norn Stone. It has been hidden for thousands of years, and in that time no sorcerer has been foolish enough to pursue it. If all goes well it will remain hidden for thousands of years to come.

Sleipnir is not overly fond of the caves, mainly because he is too tall for them, and keeps hitting his head on the ceiling. For some reason the Watchmen find this very funny. Loki did worry at first that a giant purple warhorse might be a little conspicuous, but really by the time Amora notices Sleipnir they’ll have larger concerns.

The Enchantress should not be expecting them. She probably expects Loki to have died in the library, and as far as she knows the City Watch is still miles behind her. Only a sorcerer of Loki’s calibre could have detected the exact location of the Norn Stone, though its hiding place is not much of a secret to those who know how to look. And to be honest there are not many sorcerers of Loki’s calibre on Vanaheim, regardless of the fact that his magics have been locked away beyond his reach. It took him a long time to realise that his magics had not been stolen away from him, as he had first believed; rather they have been submerged deep within him, hidden in a place that he cannot access. Perhaps Odin’s intentions really had been honest. Perhaps he really had meant for Loki to regain his powers, eventually.

It is hardly Odin’s fault if Loki has never become worthy of redemption.

There is an underground river that runs through the caves, allowing them to drink and bathe without betraying their presence there. They take turns, so that the cave’s entrance is never neglected. This river is not purple like the one that runs near Molli and Frolli’s cottage; rather it is a very deep green, so green it looks almost black. Sleipnir refuses to bathe in it. It seems that he has become fond of his purple hide, and wishes to keep it. Loki can only hope that his son never desires to return to Odin’s service – though the thought of the Allfather riding into battle atop a lavender steed is a rather precious one, he suspects that the Aesir would not take to the idea kindly.

For the most part Mako and Lillith keep to themselves and do not make any attempt at conversation. Mako is especially fond of Sleipnir, and keeps slipping sweet treats to him, ignoring Loki’s protests that the sweets are bad for his digestion. Mako also seems to find it highly entertaining to teach Sleipnir the traditional dances of the Vanir. Sleipnir finds them somewhat difficult to perform with eight legs rather than two, but his enthusiasm is contagious, and Mako assures him that any of the Vanir he meets will appreciate the gesture even if they don’t quite understand which of the dances Sleipnir is attempting to execute.

On the fourth day of waiting, Amora finally appears.

Loki senses her approach from some distance away. She has not bothered to cloak herself this time, probably because she does not expect anyone to be waiting for her. That’s good. It means they’ll catch her by surprise. There is another with her, though, and that Loki had not expected. In his experience villains like Amora prefer to work alone, unburdened by the idiocy of others. Still, there are always exceptions; Loki himself prefers to work alone, but he still affiliated himself with the Chitauri, though admittedly he had little choice in the matter.

From this distance Loki can gather little about Amora’s companion. All he knows is that the creature is large. _Very_ large.

Lillith and Mako take up positions at either side of the cave entrance, with Loki waiting a little further away and Sleipnir hidden behind a particularly large rock formation. Loki presses a finger to his lips, and Mako nods to him grimly. As Amora enters the cave they are utterly silent and utterly still, so much so that they might as well be carved from rock themselves.

Amora is clad in green, and there are throwing daggers tucked into her belt and her boots. Her companion is an enormous, scarred, misshapen thing; half-Asgardian and half-Jotun, a halfbreed creature even more monstrous than Loki himself. There is a massive double-bladed axe strapped to his back, and he wears thick, plated armour with a scarlet image of the axe emblazoned upon it.

Crouched behind a pillar, Loki sees Amora’s lip curl up slightly, and he knows suddenly that he has misjudged her terribly.

Moving silently and swiftly, Mako creeps up behind the Enchantress and presses a tiny blade against her neck, just as Lillith does the same to the halfbreed. “Get down on your knees,” says Mako, “and drop your weapons. You’re under arrest.”

“Certainly,” says Amora, and with a wicked grin she lashes out behind her, burying a dagger in Mako’s gut and dodging the swing of his blade with inhuman grace. He staggers backwards, just as Lillith’s body crumples to the floor, head separated from her shoulders with one swing of the Executioner’s axe.

“You,” says Mako haltingly, blood dribbling over his pointed teeth, “you won’t... get away with this.”

Amora tuts under her breath, and walks up to the fallen Watchman, delicately avoiding the growing puddle of blood beneath her feet. “Oh, little Vanr,” she scolds, pressing a dagger to Mako’s throat. “Don’t you understand? I already have.”

With a jerk of her wrist the blade slices neatly through Mako’s jugular, and green blood sprays out across the floor. Amora tucks the dagger back into her belt, and turns back towards the cave, staring straight at Loki’s hiding place.

Loki rises from his crouch and prepares to attack, but before he can do so Sleipnir lets out a furious whinny and charges at the sorceress, hooves clanging against the cave floor like the bells of Ragnarok. Amora whirls around and sends a dagger flying towards him; it nicks his withers but does no further damage, and she throws another.

“No!” cries Loki, and lunges into the path of the blade. The dagger buries itself in his shoulder and Sleipnir’s hooves catch Amora in the head, knocking her to the floor. Sleipnir turns his attention to the Executioner, rearing up and kicking out with all four forelegs. The monster looks wary but does not back down.

“Skurge, hold them off!” commands Amora, and sprints towards the back of the cave, towards the hiding place of the Norn Stone. Loki moves to follow her but is interrupted by a swing of the Executioner’s giant axe, which he only barely manages to avoid. He pulls the dagger from his shoulder, suppressing a cry of pain, and throws it at his aggressor. His aim is true but Skurge is fast as well as strong, and manages to deflect the blade so that it clatters harmlessly to the ground.

Sleipnir moves to intercept Skurge’s axe, but Loki throws out his hand to stop him. “Stay back!” he yells. The blade is enchanted and a tiny cut could be fatal. He will not have his son suffer for his own mistakes. Sleipnir snorts in distress but obeys, eyes rolling in his head, pawing the ground anxiously.

Without his magic, Loki and Skurge are fairly evenly matched. Loki is swift and well-trained in combat, but Skurge is a worthy warrior, and his blade has foul enchantments laid upon it that make it difficult to defend against. They are locked in battle for some time, and in the back of his mind Loki can sense the spells protecting the Norn Stone breaking one by one. He clenches his fists and fights on.

Amora reappears at the back of the cave, and Loki knows that he has been defeated yet again. She clutches the fourth Norn Stone in her hand, and there is a wild grin upon her face.

“Open it,” says Amora. Skurge hefts his monstrous axe, and with one mighty blow he slices through the veil between the realms, opening a portal which he and his mistress are quick to escape through.

In moments the portal will close, and Amora, the books, and the Norn Stones will be lost to him forever.

Loki grits his teeth, and throws himself through the portal after them.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing he notices is the heat. The second thing he notices is the darkness, a thick, cloying, pitch-black dark only slightly relieved by the stars glittering faintly in the distance

The third thing he notices is the dagger burying itself in his leg.

Loki drops to the ground and listens for any sound, any movement that might inform him of Amora’s location. His leg hurts. This is an understatement. His leg feels like it’s on fire. His shoulder, too, is still stinging from the dagger that he had intercepted earlier, and his chest is still aching from the dagger that Amora had stuck him with in the library. If he keeps this up he’s going to be full of more holes than a sieve (or even worse – more holes than Thor’s brain).

They are in Svartálfaheim. Loki has not been here since he was a boy. Svartálfaheim is a realm of utter darkness, and those who dwell here are born in the dark and die in the dark. Even Loki World-wanderer finds it difficult to navigate through the endless night, and he cannot fathom how the Enchantress intends to find Svartálfaheim’s Norn Stone while fumbling her way through the dark with her lumbering halfbreed pet.

There is grass beneath him. Though he cannot see it, he can still feel it and smell it: a sweet, earthy smell, like Idunn’s orchards after a rainstorm. The terrain seems otherwise empty – likely they have landed in one of Svartálfaheim’s enormous plains, empty but for the whispering grasses. They are unlikely to encounter any of the Svartálfar; they mostly live underground beneath the forests, in scattered communes. The plains are far too exposed for paranoid elves.

In theory Amora could have sent the dagger by magic, but she only stepped through the portal a moment before Loki. She would not have time to weave a teleporting spell. She is still here, shrouded in the darkness.

When he still had access to his powers Loki could have scried for Amora’s presence, expanding his inner sight to feel out the terrain for miles and miles in every direction, but as it is he must rely on his physical senses. Loki closes his eyes, and listens. Even his Jotun sight cannot help him here; he must rely on Jotun hearing. At least Amora and Skurge are at a similar disadvantage – more so, perhaps, considering that Asgardian senses are less acute.

Sleipnir is still alone, abandoned, in the caves of Vanaheim. Loki cannot spare a thought for him now – his son can take care of himself, and right now he has more pressing concerns, such as the dagger whistling through the air towards him.

Loki twists out of the way and lunges towards the origin of the dagger. There is a sharp intake of breath and suddenly he is colliding with a warm, snarling body. Amora bites at his ear and he howls, groping at her belt for the daggers that are concealed there; he manages to snatch one away from her but then Skurge gets in the way, pulling Loki off his mistress and tossing him aside. Loki hits the ground with a grunt and immediately rolls out of the way; not a second too soon, for another dagger pierces the ground where he was lying only a moment ago. Skurge roars, and the sound echoes through this dark and silent realm.

Loki must retrieve the axe. Without the axe his opponents cannot travel between the realms, and thus cannot escape with either the Norn Stones or with Vanaheim’s books.

On the other hand, if _he_ does not retrieve the axe he will be stuck here, and he has an uncomfortable feeling that this would flout the terms of his banishment.

Amora growls, and suddenly there is light, blinding light, emanating from a fiercely luminous globe cupped in the palm of her hand. Loki recoils from the glow and throws his hands up to protect himself, but it’s too late. There are light trails burned across his vision, and the moment of inattention costs him dearly: he fails to avoid the next dagger, and it slices across his cheekbone, only barely missing his eye.

A moment later something hits the back of his head, and Loki falls into a different kind of darkness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s unconscious for, but when he comes to he’s in a clearing tied to a tree. They must have walked halfway across Svartálfaheim in order to find a tree tall enough to tie him to. There is a tiny globe of light hovering in front of him, and beside that tiny globe of light there is a not quite so tiny Skurge, squatting on his haunches and glowering at him.

“Fuck,” says Loki, or he would have done but for the gag in his mouth. It comes out more like ‘fuff’ which is slightly less obscene but, he feels, still successful in conveying his frustration. Why does everybody in the Nine Realms feel the need to gag him? _Silvertongue_ isn’t actually literal. He may be a tricky customer but the worst he can wreak without his powers is a little emotional manipulation, or possibly a particularly fine ‘why did the bilgesnipe cross the forest path?’ joke.

Svartálfaheim is a hot realm despite the darkness, and Loki can feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck and under his arms. Before now he had begun to believe that the Jotnar did not have sweat glands at all. The knowledge isn’t quite worth the predicament he finds himself in, but it’s interesting all the same.

The rope rubs uncomfortably against his wrists, and he wiggles his fingers experimentally, hoping to slice through it with his sharp claws. No such luck: the rope is enchanted. A gnash of his teeth proves that the gag, too, is enchanted. Loki doesn’t want to think about the reasons why Amora might be carrying enchanted ropes and gags around with her.

Amora herself is nowhere to be seen, though the bag containing the books of the Vanir is propped up against Skurge’s massive ankle. It seems highly unfair that Skurge is only a half-Jotun and yet is still at least three times the size of Loki – what happened to the _giant_ part of _frost giant_? Even among his fellow monsters he is still aberrant, though perhaps the Executioner is more so. This thought provides little comfort – he would rather resemble the Jotnar than resemble Skurge.

He hopes that his lack of memory is from unconsciousness and not from a spell of memory erasure. Amora would certainly be capable of such a spell, but he doubts that she would bother. The Enchantress is the type to revel in her enemies’ misfortune, not expunge their memories of it. If he had his powers he would know, but without them he is as helpless as any mewling mortal. If he had his powers – if he had his powers. If he had his powers he could turn the moon into cheese, if he had his powers he could summon Thor here and bid him warn the Allfather of the coming threat. If he had his powers he could lay waste to this miserable realm and foil the threat himself, transform Amora into a newt or a wisp of cloud.

Wishes are for fools. If he had his powers he would not be in this mess in the first place.

A crackling of underbrush heralds Amora’s return. She strides into the clearing with a bulging knapsack on her back and a smug grin on her face. Loki knows without having to look that she has retrieved the fifth Norn Stone.

Five down, four to go. If she has conquered Svartálfaheim so easily then Alfheim will present no obstacle. Loki would expect her to be thwarted in Helheim, the realm of the dead, but if she has already snuck into Asgard and stolen the Norn Stone from beneath the Allfather’s nose then he cannot presume anything. Five of the Norn Stones are bad enough – if she manages to gather all nine of them then she will be unstoppable. All the realms will bow to her will.

Whatever her will is. Loki still hasn’t quite grasped exactly _why_ she has embarked on this perilous quest.

If only she’d remove the damn gag.

“Little Loki Odinson,” she says suddenly, stalking towards him like a cat scenting its prey. “Or is it Laufeyjarson?”

Loki snarls impotently and she giggles, a high, piercing sound. She has a beautiful laugh, if a cruel one.

“Bark all you like, little cur, you won’t frighten me,” she croons. “I’ve five Norn Stones in my pocket. I’m going to make a better world. Better _worlds_. I can dream bigger than you ever did, little tyrant.”

“You’re a fool,” he says, only it comes out as 'erra ffoo'.

The Enchantress laughs delightedly and grabs his chin, sharp fingernails digging into his scarred cheeks. “Bark, bark! Did you think that Odin was the only one capable of bringing you to your knees? By the time this is over I’ll have the Allfather _begging_ for mercy. The whole of Asgard will burn before me.”

He raises his eyebrows as high as they will go, to convey his disbelief in this idea. She doesn’t seem to notice.

Amora reaches a hand into her knapsack and draws out just one of the Norn Stones. It’s tiny and grey and doesn’t look at all like something that could burn a realm. Amora presses her lips to it, and suddenly the globe of light expands, sending thick tendrils spiralling over Svartálfaheim’s night sky, until all the heavens are fiercely lit and the stars are invisible.

Svartálfaheim is no longer a realm of darkness. The spell will be permanent, and it will have unimaginable consequences on this realm’s ecosystem. Loki thinks that he can hear faint screams in the distance, though he cannot tell if they are animal or elfish. Any creature that dwells here has spent their whole life in the darkness – the light will be painful, piercing, blinding.

Loki feels sick.

“I thought I might kill you,” says Amora, gazing down at him with a rather disturbing expression upon her face. She looks as if she is about to cook and eat him. “But then I thought – why kill you, when you could prove to be useful? Poor little lost Jotun, so far from home...”

Loki bites down a snort. He may have underestimated Amora, but Amora has certainly underestimated him in return.

“Skurge, open the portal,” she says, without breaking her gaze. Behind her Skurge grunts in agreement and swings his axe through the air, rending the fabric of the realms.

The portal opens to a white, glittering, endless space, and Loki feels a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knows that place. He knows it far too well.

“Onwards, then,” says Amora, “to Jotunheim.”


	7. Chapter 7

The last time Loki was in Jotunheim he was not terribly impressed with it. The realm seemed cold and ugly and broken, destroyed by the whims of a mad king.

This time something is different. Or perhaps it is only Loki who is different.

Jotunheim’s sun shines softly down upon craggy mountain ranges, dotted with small domiciles and sparkling waterfalls. The light reflects off the ice in such a way that it seems a realm made of diamond. In the distance Loki can just make out the ruins of the capital city – except that they are ruins no longer. The old temples have been restored, the carcass of the palace reborn. Around the palace is a constellation of beautiful, powerful buildings, with tiny clouds scudding about their highest reaches.

Something within him responds to the sight – some internal, buoyant thing rises up in joy to see Jotunheim so magnificent. So... glorious. He suppresses the feeling quickly, disconcerted by his own visceral response.

There can only be one explanation.

Jotunheim has retrieved the Casket of Ancient Winters.

He does not know how such a thing could be possible – the Jotnar had only ventured so far into the heart of Asgard with the assistance of Loki, hiding them from Heimdall’s gaze. The theft of the Casket should have been inconceivable.

Such an act is an act of war.

And yet Jotunheim does not look like a realm at war, despite the fact that the Allfather could only respond to such a deed with fire and vengeance. Jotunheim looks – peaceful. Happy, even.

Loki frowns.

He frowns even harder when Amora kicks him in the small of the back, forcing him to stumble forwards or else fall to his knees. “Come on, sourpuss,” she says cheerfully. “Time to pay a visit to King Helblindi. I’m sure he’ll be ever so pleased to see you.”

Loki’s insides turn to ice. (Not literally – well, perhaps literally; he’s never really had the chance to study Jotun physiology. Anyway, he feels queasy, or scared, or angry. One of those. He can’t quite tell.)

“I’m sure he’ll be the exact opposite,” he returns acidly, trying to disguise his mixed reaction. “I did kill his father, you know.” Loki’s father, too. He doesn’t offer that information – if Amora does not know it already then he has no desire to enlighten her. No doubt his heritage is common knowledge by now, if she was able to recognise him, but he doubts that Odin would be so ready to spread about the exact details of his parentage. It doesn’t tend to look good when you steal the babies of your age-old enemies and raise them in secret. Bad for morale. Bad for inter-realm relations. Bad all around, really.

“Loki King-killer,” says Amora. “Well, it does have a certain ring to it.”

He doesn’t respond.

The snow beneath his feet feels familiar to him, though it has not snowed on Asgard for as long as Loki has been alive. It should be alien, but it isn’t. He wonders suddenly whether the ice-shaping abilities natural to the Jotnar might also be natural to Loki. He doesn’t have access to his powers, but ice-shaping is another kind of magic entirely, magic that comes from the flesh rather than from the soul. Some would not call it magic at all.

He doesn’t risk trying it. Amora would kill him before any kind of makeshift ice-spear could reach her.

They begin the long trek to the city, pausing only for Amora to conjure great furs and wrap them around herself and her Executioner. She doesn’t offer any such garments to Loki, but Loki does not need them. Loki is a Jotun – his bare skin is protection enough from the elements. In that he is at least superior to Skurge, who is shivering despite his mixed parentage.

The cold is actually quite... nice.

He hates to admit it, but it’s true. He’s never felt quite so at ease in his skin before.

They reach the palace without meeting a single Jotun, which is nothing at all to do with luck and entirely due to Amora’s skill with concealment charms. She drops the charm once they get there.

With typical flair, she throws open the palace doors with such force that one of them breaks from its hinges and clatters across the floor. She strides inside, tugging Loki behind her, with Skurge following along as something of an afterthought.

Unfortunately Amora has miscalculated. Helblindi is not here – in fact the king’s hall is all but empty. The only audience to her performance is a single guard, sitting in the shadow of the throne and looking entirely unimpressed.

Amora snarls, and sends a thick, burning rope of magic to wrap around the throat of the guard. The Jotun claws at his neck to no avail, now looking rather more frightened. “Fetch your king,” she says, and kicks Loki to the ground before her. “I’ve a gift for him.”

She releases the guard, who immediately scurries away into some corner of the palace.

They wait. Loki rolls his eyes, unseen.

They do not have to wait long.

When Helblindi enters the hall, accompanied by a retinue of courtiers, he is not at all what Loki had expected. He’d thought that the King of Jotunheim would be another Laufey – a scarred, brittle monster, wild with rage and insanity. Instead the creature that stands before him is calm, composed, dressed in attire typical of his people – that is, a loincloth that serves little purpose in protecting either his skin or his modesty – and with golden jewellery dripping from his ears.

The jewellery is what surprises Loki more than anything – it marks Helblindi as a scholar rather than a warrior. A scholar-king of Jotunheim – the thought is absurd. And yet there he stands.

The king waits for Amora to address him, and when it becomes apparent that she will not, he addresses her himself. “Hail, Enchantress,” he says. “I hear you have brought me a gift.” His gaze falls to Loki, lingering on the markings around his eyes and curling around his wrists. The king’s expression is unreadable.

“Indeed I have,” says Amora. Loki winces; in leaving off any kind of greeting she has paid Helblindi great insult. Evidently she does not care. She kicks Loki in the ribs and he quells a groan. “I’m sure you don’t recognise the traitor – he wore a different guise when last he visited your realm. I shall enlighten you: he is Loki Realm-breaker, slayer of Laufey.”

At this Helblindi looks genuinely shocked, and he takes an involuntary step forward. “Is this true?” he demands.

“Of course,” says Amora, a shade indignant. “I bring him to you in exchange for – a small favour. I wish to explore your realm, and I ask safe passage from your people.”

“It’s not a small favour,” says Loki from the floor. “She is going to steal the Norn Stone of Jotunheim.”

Amora’s face twists in anger and she kicks him in the teeth. Loki tastes blood. “And what need have you of your Norn Stone?” she asks Helblindi sweetly. “It only sits in a cave gathering dust. I have no quarrel with the Jotnar – yet. But I _will_ have all nine of the stones, and your only choice in the matter is whether to oppose me or cooperate.”

Helblindi does not say anything for a long moment, and then he raises his head. The courtiers behind him are silent. “And if I oppose?”

“Then I will destroy you,” she says. Her voice has lost all of its earlier sweetness. “I came to you in good faith. You do not want to make an enemy of me.”

“I will make an enemy of whoever I like,” says Helblindi. He nods to his guards. “Arrest her, please.”

The guards surge forward, but Amora is ready for them; with a cry of anger she grabs the arm of her Executioner and teleports away. By the time the guards reach the space where she had been standing, all that is left is just that – empty space.

Empty space and Loki.

Helblindi turns back to his courtiers, a complicated expression on his face. “Leave us,” he says, all in one breath. They file out quickly, some casting worried glances back to their king, but none protesting.

Loki’s eyes are watering but he refuses to close them. He pulls himself to his feet with a little difficulty. He will meet his death with courage and dignity, not cowering on the ground like a dog.

“Loki,” says Helblindi softly, as if tasting the word. “You are the son of Odin?”

Loki casts a glance down to his blue skin, his black claws. “As you can see,” he says wryly, “it is a little more complicated than that.”

“I am beginning to gather that,” says Helblindi. His eyes are stuck to the markings on Loki’s face, and a moment later he reaches out a hand to trace them. Loki flinches, and Helblindi lets his fingers fall away. “Do you know what these markings mean?”

Loki shrugs. “Marks of stature,” he says, “lineage markings –” and freezes.

Lineage markings. How could he be so stupid? They are written on his skin for all to see.

“Exactly,” says the king of Jotunheim. His voice is very heavy. He lowers himself to his knees, so that he and Loki are eye-to-eye. “You are the son of Odin. But you are also the son of Laufey.”

Loki cannot meet his gaze any longer; he turns his face away.

Suddenly Helblindi’s arms are around him, and he stills, waiting for an icy dagger to pierce his throat or his heart. But no such weapon appears – Helblindi is only embracing him.

Loki isn’t really sure what’s going on any more.

“We thought you dead,” says Helblindi, voice breaking. “You were only a babe. Fárbauti had died only days before. Býleistr and I were barely old enough to understand what had happened. Laufey was distraught, and it only fuelled his madness. And yet – and yet you were in Asgard all along. If we had known...”

“I had thought,” said Loki, and stops. “Odin told me that he found me abandoned.”

“Not abandoned,” says Helblindi. “Hidden. Protected. Or so we thought.”

Loki takes a deep, shuddering breath. He doesn’t know what to think. “But I killed. I killed Laufey. Why are you – why do you not –” He cannot finish.

 “Laufey was sick,” says Helblindi, though he looks as if the words cost him something to admit. “He was not... sane, after that. He should not have broken our peace with Asgard, no matter the actions of your – brother. I do not blame you for what happened in Odin’s chambers. You were only acting in defence of your king."

“What do you want from me?” asks Loki, in a very small voice.

“Whatever you are willing to give,” says Helblindi, sounding unsure. “You do not have to stay here if you do not wish it. We can deliver you back to Asgard. But I – we would appreciate it if you might stay, for a time.”

“No,” says Loki, and then at Helblindi’s expression hastens to clarify, “No, you need not return me to Asgard. I am banished. But I – I cannot stay. The Enchantress spoke the truth. She has five of the Norn Stones in her possession already. You are lucky that she did not bring down the whole palace around your ears.”

“The Norn Stones,” scoffs Helblindi. “They are objects of legend only –”

“No,” says Loki. “They are real. Old, but real. You should be wary. And I – I must stop her. She intends to destroy Asgard, and that cannot happen.”

“If what you say is true,” says Helblindi slowly, “then you are right. She cannot be allowed to continue. But you needn’t pursue her alone. I have Jotnar that can accompany you. I can accompany you, if it comes to it. Our scholars will know where to seek the stone, though our libraries are still being rebuilt. We can stop her.”

“Thank you,” whispers Loki.

“In the meantime, I have rooms in the palace, if you would like to stay...”

“I would like that,” says Loki, though he still isn’t sure that this isn’t a dream, or a cruel trick. If it is a dream then he has nothing to worry about, and if it is a trick then he is only going to die anyway, so he might as well go along with it.

“Good,” says Helblindi. “And – there is someone – Býleistr, our brother Býleistr, he would like to meet you. We have been waiting a long time to meet you, though we did not know it.”

“I would like to meet him also,” says Loki carefully. If he is extraordinarily lucky then Býleistr will not want to kill him either, although perhaps that is too much to hope for.

“One more thing,” says Helblindi, and presses his hand to Loki’s cheekbone. He mutters something under his breath, and blue light blossoms beneath his palm, healing the cut on Loki’s cheek and spreading over his body, sinking into his shoulder wound and his leg wound and the various scrapes and bruises incurred in his battle with Amora. When he is done Loki feels rejuvenated, as if he has drunk from the well of Hvergelmir and lived to tell the tale.

Loki stares at him mutely, too surprised to speak. The king of Jotunheim is a sorcerer – a seiðmaðr – it is almost too much to believe. On Asgard such things are tolerated but by no means admired; resorting to magic is seen as resorting to the basest of trickeries. He doesn’t know what to make of this. The king of Jotunheim is a mess of contradictions.

“Come, then,” says Helblindi. “I’ll show you to your rooms. And we can... catch up.”

Loki nods. He has a feeling that this isn’t exactly what Amora had planned, when she had brought him here. He’s almost sorry that she didn’t stick around to watch the show.

Today, it seems, is not the day he dies.

Hopefully tomorrow will not be, either.


	8. Chapter 8

Loki’s rooms are large and lavish, with high ceilings and huge stained-glass windows. Sunlight pours across the floor in dappled patterns of red and green and violet, lighting up the fur rugs and canopied bed. It is a room fit for – well, fit for a prince of Jotunheim, if Loki is to be honest. It is not what he was expecting.

But then, none of this is what he was expecting.

Helblindi seems strangely nervous, shifting from foot to foot and wringing his hands behind his back where he thinks that Loki can’t see him. “Is it to your liking?”

“It’s magnificent,” says Loki truthfully. “But I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it.”

Helblindi grins and looks a little bashful. “Think of it as a thousand years’ worth of missed nameday gifts.”

Loki is about to respond when the door is thrown open, crashing against the wall with such force that tiny splinters fly free and lodge themselves in the rug. The Jotun behind the door is at least a foot taller than Helblindi, and about four feet taller than Loki. He has a blunt nose and thick eyebrows, and one of his ears is scarred and ravaged. He is clad in a simple leather loincloth, and bears none of Helblindi’s opulent jewellery.

“Is it true?” says the Jotun, sounding excited and somewhat out of breath. His gaze moves to Loki and his jaw drops open. “Is that – is that him?”

“Yes, it’s him,” says Helblindi, amused. “Do try to control yourself, Býleistr, you’ll frighten the boy.”

Loki scowls at that. He is a thousand years old – he has four children – he is no _boy_.

He doesn’t have time to protest, though, because in the next moment Býleistr has crossed the room and enveloped him in an embrace so mighty that his feet are lifted off the floor. Loki yelps and flails around a bit, but can gain no purchase against the Jotun’s thick muscles. There is a roaring in his ears, and it takes him a moment to realise that the sound is Býleistr bawling like a baby, splashing fat, salty tears onto Loki’s head.

“ _B_ _ý_ _leistr_ ,” says Helblindi reproachfully. “What are you – put him down, you great fool. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I d-don’t care,” hiccups Býleistr, clutching Loki even tighter. “It’s our b-baby brother! He’s b-back!”

“I am no _baby_ ,” spits Loki, annoyed.

“Of course you’re not,” says Helblindi soothingly. “Býleistr, put him down. You’re crushing him.”

At that Býleistr drops Loki like a hot coal, looking terrified that he has somehow managed to harm him. Loki straightens his tunic and tries to regain some small semblance of dignity.

“Loki, would you like to take your meal in your chambers or in the dining hall?” asks Helblindi, after shooting a somewhat exasperated look at his brother.

“The dining hall will serve,” says Loki. “I would like to... catch up, as you say.”

Helblindi beams and Býleistr starts weeping anew.

“Are you all right?” asks Loki, a little horrified. He’s only just met his brothers and now he’s broken one of them. He has the _worst_ track record with family things.

“I’m f-fine,” sobs Býleistr, and waves a hand at his face. “Tears of joy.”

They walk to the dining hall in awkward silence, punctuated only by Býleistr’s occasional sniffles. Loki isn’t really sure where to start. They have all missed out on so much. Does he start by telling them of his childhood? Of his own children? Of what exactly led him to direct the Bifrost against their realm, murdering untold numbers of innocents? Volstagg’s old jibe returns to him – he might as well be called Loki Lead-tongue for all that he can carry a conversation now.

The dining hall is bigger than Asgard’s. Loki should not find this as hilarious as he does. It’s only logical; the Jotnar are, after all, very much bigger than the Aesir.

The tables are laid out with all manner of foods, not just fish. There is fish aplenty, of course, but there are also great spitted creatures cooking over open fires, sea serpents – Loki suppresses a shudder at that; Jörmungand would _not_ be impressed – bear meat, rodent meat, fox and hare and great arctic birds, exotic spices, and strange vegetables the likes of which Loki has never seen. Some of the vegetables are _glowing_.

“I had thought that no vegetation could grow on Jotunheim’s barren shores,” he says curiously. “Where did all of this come from?”

“There are caves underground where succulent fungi grow aplenty,” explains Helblindi. “And some of it we have traded for with other realms, of course, the spices and wines in particular.”

“Traded?” repeats Loki. “But you do not – oh.” He surveys the hall in a new light. “The Casket?”

“Indeed,” confirms Helblindi. “Now that it has been returned to us, we are capable of interstellar travel once more, and are keen to repair our relations with other realms.”

“Returned to you,” says Loki. He feels like a parrot, unable to do anything but repeat that which has been told to him. “So you didn’t – steal it?”

Helblindi lets out a hearty laugh, and slaps his thigh. “Steal it! No, certainly not. We opened treaty negotiations with Asgard shortly after I took the throne. The Allfather returned the Casket of Ancient Winters to us as a show of goodwill, and as an apology for your carelessness with the Bifrost.”

Loki shifts uncomfortably. “I did not... I had thought, when I turned the Bifrost against you, that you were a race of Laufeys, of – monsters. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect you to be kind. I am... I am sorry.”

Helblindi shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It took us a while to clean up afterwards, but once the Casket was returned to us the repairs took no time at all.”

Loki frowns. “But what of those who died in the attack?”

“ _Died_?” says Helblindi, looking shocked. “Nobody _died_. Who told you that Jotnar died? Some were a little scratched up, it is true, and I believe someone lost a toe, but that was the extent of the damage. Jotnar are hardier than that. You would have had to level the Bifrost against Jotunheim for days before the damage was really irreparable.”

“Oh,” says Loki. He doesn’t know quite how to respond. It seems he is less of a murderer than he had thought he was, if there can ever be lesser degrees of murder. Still, one sin unexpectedly erased does not also erase his whole sordid history; he still slayed Laufey, and many of the mortals on Midgard. Merely regretting something does not make that thing go away.

Helblindi piles a plate high with various foodstuffs, and slides it in front of Loki. “Eat up,” he says. “You must regain your strength if we are to go after the Enchantress.”

“We?” says Loki, and bites his tongue. He really must stop repeating everything Helblindi says.

“Yes, we,” says Býleistr, shaking his head. He seems to have recovered from his crying fit, though his eyes are still rather purple and swollen. “Did you expect us to leave you to battle the sorceress alone?”

Loki’s surprise must show in his gaze, because Býleistr spits out his drink and turns to him in bewilderment.

“You _did_?” he says. “But – we are your brothers! And she has made advances upon _our_ realm – this is our fight just as much as it is yours, brother.”

“In that case, I thank you,” murmurs Loki.

“Thank us when we have the Norn Stone in our vaults and the Enchantress in custody,” says Helblindi. “Until then, eat your kvetja root.”

Loki looks doubtfully at the bright pink root on his plate. It looks like an intestinal tract. And then he puts it in his mouth and it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He might moan a little bit.

Helblindi looks please. “Kvetja root was always our sire’s favourite dish.”

Loki goes cross-eyed. “Laufey liked this?” But it tastes like sparkles and rainbows!

Býleistr gives him an odd look. “Not Laufey, Fárbauti. It was Laufey who bore us, and Fárbauti’s seed that gave us life. Fárbauti was a very sweet Jotun. You would have liked him.”

“Oh,” says Loki. “So Laufey was a –”

“A Jotun,” says Helblindi. “Just like any of us.”

Loki goes quiet. He has a lot to think about.

In Asgard a man giving birth is not uncommon, but like the practice of magic it is seen as something shameful, for without magic it cannot occur. In Vanaheim there are myriad genders and the people have no such concerns, and evidently in Jotunheim it’s not a source of anguish either, if the King himself is so sanguine about it. It is true that Loki has never seen a frost giant _ess_ , though as far as he knows they do exist, but tend to keep to themselves. Perhaps the frost giantesses can also plant life within others as well as give birth to it.

“I have children,” says Loki suddenly. “I should like for you to meet them one day.”

 Býleistr starts sobbing again, and Loki worries that he has blundered horribly, until he says, “Babies! You have b-babies! Fárbauti would be so h-happy!”

Helblindi buries his head in his hands, and then peeks out from between his fingers. “Ignore this buffoon of a brother,” he says to Loki, voice muffled. “I am very happy for you. Of course we must meet your children. If it pleases you, I am sure that my lover would like to meet them also.”

“You have a lover?” asks Loki.

“His name is Fróði,” says Helblindi, face going soft. “He’s a carpenter.”

The king of Jotunheim in love with a carpenter.

Well, stranger things have surely happened, though Loki can think of none of them right now.

Conversation after that is stilted but a little freer than it was before. Helblindi announces his intention to put together a team of scholars to work on divining the Norn Stone’s location within Jotunheim, so that they may retrieve it before Amora can get to it. Helblindi is a powerful sorcerer in his own right and so the protective enchantments should pose no problem for him. Loki tells them of the library in Vanaheim, and Helblindi extends an offer to explore Jotunheim’s own royal library, and adds with a wink that Loki is permitted to sleep there if he so desires.

During dinner they also teach him how to create little ice crystals in the palm of his hand, and then to develop them into shapes – knives, or arrows, or rose blossoms. Loki is delighted – he had not thought that such a skill would still be available to him without his magic. Creating the ice feels as natural to him as breathing.

Loki sleeps that night in royal chambers, surrounded by scrolls and parchments and leather-bound books. He dreams of Midgard, of a great green beast and a man clad in fiery armour, of men with shields and bows and a woman with hair the colour of blood. He dreams of Thor.

He is woken in the night by a servant knocking frantically on his door. “The king requests your presence,” the Jotun says, sounding very out of breath. “It’s the Bifrost, my lord. It’s activating.”

Loki throws on his clothes and runs as fast as he can to meet his brother at the Bifrost site, a short distance outside the capital city. He is not surprised that the Bifrost has already been repaired, though it has only been a few years. The Allfather always hated a job half-finished.

There is a thrumming energy beneath his heart, an anticipation of something yet to come. Perhaps Odin has come to wreak his revenge, to kill him, to imprison him. Loki has, after all, broken his banishment – Amora did not drag him through that first portal. He entered it willingly. Whatever fate he has brought upon himself, he certainly deserves it.

And yet when the mist thrown up by the bridge clears, and the silhouette within it takes shape, it is not the person that Loki was expecting.

The creature transported by the Bifrost was not Odin, nor was it any member of the royal family; in fact it is not an Asgardian at all.

“Sleipnir,” says Loki, shocked, and moves to embrace his son, pulling the horse’s purple neck down so that he may look him in the eye. “How on earth did you get Heimdall to agree to this?”

Sleipnir whinnies gleefully and pushes his head against Loki’s, knocking him into the snow. Loki groans theatrically and picks himself up, brushing ice crystals from his tunic.

“Loki, what is going on?” asks the king.

“Helblindi,” says Loki. “Meet your eldest nephew.”

Helblindi blinks. “My nephew is a horse?”

“Yes,” snaps Loki, and covers Sleipnir’s ears. “Don’t be cruel. Do you want to give him a complex? Come and greet your nephew.”

Cowed, Helblindi quickly walks over, and bows neatly at the waist. “Hail, Sleipnir,” he says. “I am glad to finally meet you. Do you like Jotunheim?”

Sleipnir whickers, and pushes his nose against Helblindi’s head.

“He likes it very much,” translates Loki. “It’s much nicer than the last time he was here.”

Helblindi only nods, seemingly not quite sure how to reply to that. Eventually he says, “I have other relatives also?”

“Indeed you do,” says Loki, beaming widely. “Two nephews and a niece, though of different parentage. Sleipnir was sired by Svaðilfari – the others were sired by myself and birthed by Angrboða.”

“Angrboða,” repeats Helblindi, eyebrows rising. “That is a Jotun name. Are they Jotnar?”

“Not as such,” hedges Loki. “Fenrir is a wolf. Jörmungand is a serpent.”

Helblindi looks somewhat baffled. “And the other?”

“Hela is queen of the dead.”

“Of course,” sighs the king. He claps him on the shoulder. “Well, I could not expect that any child of yours would be _ordinary_. Congratulations, brother – it sounds like you have a brood to be proud of.”

Loki tries not to show the warm feeling that kindles in his breast at that sentiment, but he suspects that he fails.

Sleipnir whinnies and nudges him, and for the first time Loki notices that he is holding something in his teeth. It is covered in horse spit, and rather ragged, but he manages to retrieve it more or less intact; it is a letter in his moth – in Frigga’s handwriting, wrapped in waterproof wax. It reads:

 

_Loki,_

__

_Heimdall has told me of your troubles with a certain Enchantress. I am sorry that we were too late to stop her from stealing our own Norn Stone, but I have sent a troop of guards to Álfheim and to Helheim, not that your daughter should need the help, and your brother is already in Midgard waiting to defend against any assault that may occur there. I trust King Helblindi will be able to adequately defend his own realm. You may show him this letter, and give him my regards._

__

_Sleipnir was very unhappy with you for leaving him. I thought that I should rectify this. Don’t worry about leaving Vanaheim; we are all very glad that you’re embracing your true self._

__

_Your father is in the Odinsleep again, so I am keeping the throne of Asgard warm. I am making the guards run laps around the palace every morning. It is very amusing. They are not happy with me but it is good for their cardiovascular fitness, and when they are old and grey and not dying of heart attacks they will thank me, the slobs._

__

_Don’t forget to keep regular sleeping patterns, I know how you get when you’re researching something._

__

_All my love,_

_Frigga_

_  
_

__

Groaning, Loki passes the letter along to Helblindi, keeping a hand over his eyes as his brother reads it. When he is done Helblindi starts to laugh, and Loki snarls wordlessly.

“Your mother sounds very formidable,” says the king of Jotunheim. “I would like to meet her properly someday. We didn’t have the chance to talk much at the treaty negotiations.”

“Heaven forbid,” says Loki wearily. “She would eat you alive.”

“I am sure she would,” says Helblindi, and waggles his eyebrows. “But I am not so sure that I would not enjoy it.”

“Please stop talking,” says Loki.

Helblindi snorts, and turns back to the palace. “It’s a beautiful day,” he observes, breath misting in the morning air. “Let’s shut ourselves up in a dark room with a lot of scrolls.”

“Sounds like a plan,” says Loki, and smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

It takes them eight days to find the Norn Stone, during which time Sleipnir discovers that he is exceedingly fond of a particular fungus that grows in the ice caves in the mountains. Somewhat coincidentally, the Norn Stone is to be found in those same ice caves – though perhaps this is less coincidental when one considers that a great deal of Jotunheim is, in fact, made up of ice caves.

The stone is small and grey and covered in frost. The frost melts when Loki touches it, and the resulting magical pulse almost burns his eyebrows off. He chooses to think of it as the stone merely saying hello.

They hide the stone in Helblindi’s chambers, beneath his bed, with the rationale that he is a fine sorcerer and is already in a rather opportune position to have guards posted about him day and night.

In retrospect this was not the best decision.

It takes two days for Amora to find the stone’s new hiding place. She comes in the night and almost slits Helblindi’s throat before his guards batter down the door and come to his aid. Two guards are slain and Helblindi severely injured before Amora finally flees, taking Skurge and the Norn Stone with her to whatever realm she desires to conquer next.

Luckily Helblindi’s energy is not so sapped that he cannot immediately heal himself. If he were not a sorcerer he would have lost his arm.

Loki meets him in the Healing Room of Jotunheim, though the king has already been healed to the best of anyone’s abilities. Helblindi has a scrying bowl on his lap and a worried Býleistr hovering over his shoulder.

Loki can’t decide if he is furious or terrified – there is a strange fluttering feeling in his stomach, and his skin feels hot and cold and prickly by turns. “What were you thinking!” he snaps. “She could have killed you. You should have left the moment she appeared.”

“I have a duty to my people, Loki,” says Helblindi calmly. “And a duty to you. I could not let her leave with the Norn Stone without at least giving her a fight.”

“And look how that turned out!”

Helblindi finally tears his gaze away from the scrying bowl, and looks up at him with painfully kind eyes. “The fight is not over yet. The Enchantress is in Midgard, and we are soon to follow.”

“Midgard?” says Loki, and then, “ _We_?”

“Well, of course I’m going,” says Helblindi, as if it is obvious. “And Býleistr is my war general. And I can’t imagine that you would stay behind.”

“No,” says Loki. “How do you even intend to get there? Beg the Allfather for use of his bridge?”

“Don’t be silly,” says Helblindi. “We’ll use the Casket. Amora has six of the stones already. I have no particular fondness for Midgard, but this is a larger thing, now. This concerns Jotunheim as much as it concerns anybody else.”

“You are the king of Jotunheim,” says Loki. “Others can harness the power of the Casket. You don’t have to come with us – we are capable of taking on the Enchantress alone. I cannot allow you to be endangered. Not now. Not for anything.”

Helblindi worries at his lip, and then shrugs. “I am no warrior. But I cannot stay behind. I will accompany you whether you like it or not.”

“I do _not_ like it,” says Loki heatedly. “You have responsibilities! You can’t just go racing willy-nilly after every quest that comes your way –”

“My responsibilities are to my family,” says Helblindi with finality. “I have not found you at last only to lose you now. I am coming to Midgard.”

Loki sighs, and knows that the battle is lost. Helblindi will not be swayed.

They ready for war.

Helblindi supplies him with Jotun battle-armour, which is very much like normal Jotun clothing except slightly more leathery, and with a few more hidden pouches to keep healing crystals in. They do not bother with weapons – a Jotun is his own weapon. Even Loki, raised a world apart, very quickly learnt the habit of raising ice from his fingers like knives, or swords, or spears. Even without his magic, some things are innate.

Sleipnir kicks up a fuss until Loki finally relents and allows him to come along. The Jotnar do not traditionally go into battle on horseback – they hardly need the height advantage – but Loki is a runt of a Jotun, and Sleipnir is a seasoned warhorse. Loki makes sure that he is covered with as much armour as he can possibly bear, partly to protect him and partly to hide the vivid purple colour of his coat, though it’s not as if the Jotnar with their blue skin are any less conspicuous.

There are thirty of them altogether: the three sons of Laufey, one of Laufey’s grandsons, and twenty-six battle-hardened Jotnar. They would have brought more but Helblindi does not want to give Midgard the wrong impression – it’s always so awkward when a realm thinks you’re invading when you’re actually trying to help them – and anyway, if thirty Jotnar can’t defeat the Enchantress then thirty more won’t make much of a difference.

Travelling by the power of the Casket is not like anything Loki has experienced. It is wholly unlike the Bifrost, and not at all like the unstable journey afforded by the Tesseract. It’s not even like taking the shadow-paths between the realms, as Loki has been wont to do. It feels like diving into a frozen pool and swimming down so deep that you come out the other edge of the world. The first breath of Midgardian air feels like the first breath Loki has taken in eons.

At first glance the terrain does not look so different from that of Jotunheim. Ice stretches out in every direction, as far as they eye can see, and but for a few distant birds wheeling in and out of clouds there are no living creatures in sight.

This is good. Better to meet the Enchantress here, on frozen ground, where the Jotnar have the advantage. If they can get to her before she retrieves Midgard’s Norn Stone – all the better. If they cannot... well, Loki has faced worse odds. He can’t remember them at the moment, but he’s sure that he has been in direr situations than this. Probably. Maybe.

Sleipnir paws at the ground and snorts. Loki tangles his hand in his son’s mane, and strokes his neck soothingly. Sleipnir isn’t wearing a saddle – not that he would have minded, but something in Loki rebels at the thought of saddling his son like a common beast, and he’s perfectly capable of riding bareback. Bareback but for the armour, that is.

Helblindi has a tiny scrying bowl cupped in the palm of his great hand, and he frowns down at it, lips moving soundlessly. The other warriors wait behind him in battle-ready stances, hands poised to create ice-weapons at a moment’s notice. Finally Helblindi looks up, red eyes eagle-sharp, and tucks the scrying bowl into a pouch. “She’s close,” he says. “She knows we’re here.”

“Then we have lost the element of surprise,” Loki observes. “No matter; we were hardly depending upon it.”

Helblindi’s lips curve and a terribly pointed spear grows from his right forearm, taller than Loki, longer even than Gungnir. “Let her come to us, then,” he says, and bares his fangs in something halfway between a grimace and a grin.

Loki turns to face the icy wasteland, and raises his voice. “Amora!” he roars. “I know you can hear me. There is no place in all of the Nine Realms where we cannot find you; there is no use in hiding. Come and face us!”

His only warning is a minute shift of freezing air, and then: “Now, now,” says that poisonous voice, slinking up behind him, “that’s no way to treat an old _friend_.”

There is movement at his shoulder but Loki is ready for her: he catches the dagger just before it hits his skin, and Sleipnir prances away from her. “You are no friend of mine,” Loki replies, and forms a thick, ice-bladed broadsword over his left hand.

Amora spins away from him, cackling wickedly, with Skurge looming up behind her. The half-giant looks comically torn, axe raised, as if he wants desperately to intercede on his mistress’s behalf but knows that she would not appreciate the interruption.

“You don’t remember me?” coos the Enchantress, feigning indignation. “I’m hurt. I admit it took me a while to recognise you, but it has been such a _long_ time, and you are wearing a rather different skin.”

Loki’s brow wrinkles, though his blade does not waver. Sleipnir shifts uneasily beneath him. “We have not met before,” he says. “I would remember it.”

“Obviously you do not,” she says. “We were children. Well – _you_ were a child. Thor and I, we were not so young.”

“You have never met my – my not-brother, either,” says Loki, impatient. Arrayed behind him the Jotnar do not move a muscle, waiting for their cue. “Stop these lies. Give up the Norn Stones and your life will be spared. Continue and your fate will not be so pleasant.”

“Lies?” she snarls, fingering a dagger at her belt. “They are not _lies_. You should know that, _Lie_ smith. Your poor memory is no fault of mine. But then, you were still half a babe when the Allfather banished me. Poor little Loki Lie-father. We are not so different as you might like to think.”

“Enough talk,” he says, suddenly furious. “Surrender the Norn Stones, or we will take them from you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Amora spits, and flings a dagger at his head. Sleipnir throws himself to the side and it misses Loki by a hair’s width.

Helblindi lets out an uncharacteristic bellow and launches himself at the Enchantress, but she holds a Norn Stone in each hand, the rest strapped to her belt, and is evidently far more practiced in their use than she was when Loki last encountered her. She teleports out of the way, laughing as Helblindi overbalances and plunges into the snow. The king of Jotunheim rolls over and begins to form a ward to trap his foe, but before he can finish it Amora sends a dagger spiralling towards him, and it hits him in the meaty junction of neck and shoulder. He crumples soundlessly to the ground, and Býleistr howls just as Loki lets out a cry of horror.

The other Jotnar move to help but are blocked by Skurge. The half-giant can only hold all twenty-seven of them off for long, but he doesn’t need long. Amora starts up a chant, and a bright glow pours out from the Norn Stones in her hands and in her belt. The wind whips up suddenly, tossing her golden hair around her shoulders and preventing Loki or any of the Jotnar from getting close to her.

The spell cuts off abruptly, and Amora slumps to her knees. For a moment Loki thinks that the Norn Stones had been too much for her, that she had burnt herself out trying to access their arcane power. She looks up, though, and starts to smirk; then great figures shaped from ice unfold out of the ground, huge drones with fiery eyes, faintly transparent and glittering in the sunlight. Skurge falls back, and the drones take his place, hacking and slashing at the Jotnar and driving them ever further from their king.

Cold fear grips Loki’s heart, and he and Sleipnir charge at the Enchantress, but to no avail; she throws up a shield to halt their progress, and then directs one of the drones into their path. Sleipnir rears up, but even his mighty hooves have no effect on the drone, and the Jotnar with their icy weapons are having little success fighting against creatures formed entirely from ice.

There is a rumbling noise in the distance, and lightning flashes overhead. Sleipnir freezes, and Loki almost brings a hand to his mouth in shock before he remembers that his hand is currently encased in an icy sword-shaped shell.

Dark clouds gather above the battle, and a powerful wind sends snow spraying in every direction. In the midst of the storm a mortal-fashioned jetplane touches down a short way away, accompanied by a man in a garish metal suit and a rather too familiar Asgardian. The rest of the Avengers quickly emerge from the plane, each of them geared up for battle.

The drones and the Jotnar freeze in place. Amora seems honestly perplexed.

“Oh, sorry,” says Stark, not sounding sorry at all. “Are we interrupting?”

“Get thee hence, mortal,” says Amora scornfully. “This is not your fight.”

“Well, see, this is where you’re confused,” says Stark. “It’s our planet. That makes it our fight. Well,” he adds, “it’s our planet and you’re on politically neutral land, and you’re obviously extra-terrestrial. _That_ makes it our fight.”

Rogers clears his throat and steps forward. “We’re not trying to make any enemies here,” he says. “We’d like to know what the problem is, and if possible we’d prefer it if you carried out your quarrel elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere like wherever the hell you came from in the first place,” clarifies Stark.

Loki looks up to the heavens and wishes, just for a moment, that he wasn’t constantly surrounded by buffoons.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” says Amora. “I have business with your planet that cannot be derailed, not by these Jotun fools and certainly not by mere _mortals_.”

She moves to call upon more drones, Norn Stones glowing, but before she can finish the spell Thor interrupts her with a shocked, “Ami?”

“Thor,” she says, lips turning downwards. She almost looks sad. “I grieve that it has come to this, but not even you can stand between me and my revenge.”

With that a new host of drones rips free of the ice, lumbering towards the Avengers. Thor raises Mjolnir and stands to defend his comrades, but then he finally seems to notice the gigantic eight-legged warhorse standing among the Jotnar. His mouth drops open and Mjolnir falls to his side. “Sleipnir?” he says, and then, “Loki?”

Apparently for Thor today is a day of unexpected reunions.

“ _What_?” cries Barton, swinging around with bow at the ready. The other Avengers seems similarly shocked, but are quickly distracted by the drones engaging them in battle.

“Oh, honestly,” says Loki disgustedly, “We are in the middle of warmaking, Thor, are you so incapable of focussing for one _moment_ –”

Thor, though, seems stuck on one point. “You’re purple,” he says, staring up at Sleipnir. “Why are you purple?”

Sleipnir whickers and prances on the spot a little, as if showing off his recent cosmetic decisions. Thor looks bemused.

Amora chooses that moment to start throwing around enormous laser beams, one of which cuts the jet neatly in half. The Hulk roars incoherently and leaps into the fray, tossing aside ice drones and frost giants alike; the other Avengers are slightly more discerning in their choice of opponents, only battling the enemies that targeted them first – that is, the drones. Romanoff in particular seems wary of the Jotnar after discovering that they are harbouring Loki, but she leaves them well enough alone, though this might be because she is currently occupied with keeping at least five of the drones at bay.

One of the laser beams swings towards Thor, and the great fool doesn’t even notice it. Every thought flees Loki’s mind and he launches himself at his not-brother, knocking him out of the way just in time.

Thor gapes up at him in surprise, and Loki promptly snarls and slaps him around the face. “You _fool_!” he yells, voice embarrassingly high-pitched. “You could have died! Learn to watch your surroundings?”

“Loki,” says Thor, and his voice is very soft, and his eyes are very wet, and then Loki is entirely distracted by another beam swaying inexorably towards Stark, who not only hasn’t seen it but actually has his _back_ turned to it. Barton, perched on the remains of the jet and loosing exploding arrows at the drones, shouts out a warning, but it’s too late. Stark is just beginning to turn when Loki slams into him, removing him from the path of the blast, but the armour is heavier than he had expected and he doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. The laser beam hits him in the side, and he has a moment to process the horrible smell of sizzling flesh before he falls to the ground.

He closes his eyes and wonders if he will make it past the gates of Valhalla.

And then something unexpected happens.

A bright light flares behind his eyes, and searing warmth builds beneath his breastbone. Loki shakes, and chokes, and then almost passes out with shock at the feeling of his powers returning to him.

For the first time in years, he feels whole.

The Allfather’s timing is, as always, impeccable, but Loki cannot help but wonder at his intentions in returning his magics _now_ of all times. What is so special about defending an enemy, rather than defending Thor, or Sleipnir, or any of the Vanir? Or, for that matter, any of the Jotnar? Are the mortals of Midgard so important?

Still lying seemingly insensate in the snow, he concentrates on the feeling of flesh knitting back together, burned flesh replaced by new, sensitive skin. Jotnar are particularly susceptible to burns, but Loki’s healing spells were magnificent even before he visited the library of Vanaheim, and now he has the opportunity to put into practice some of the theory he had learnt there. The burn doesn’t heal entirely but it heals well enough, and in a few hours all that will be left to show of it is a scar.

Gradually Loki returns to the real world. His face is wet, and when he opens his eyes he sees that it’s not from the snow but from Thor and Býleistr, who are both hunched over him and weeping helplessly. Thor’s sobs break off with a startled gasp when he notices that Loki’s eyes are open, but Býleistr only gathers Loki up in his arms and howls all the louder. Loki bats at him weakly, with no effect.

“Do you mind,” he says, voice hoarse. “We have a battle to be getting on with.”

Amora shrieks in anger, and readies another laser blast, but this time Loki is ready for her. He pulls himself swiftly to his feet and creates myriad copies of himself, ignoring his exhaustion in favour of taking out the current threat. All of the Avengers and about half of the Jotnar are still intact and battling the drones and Skurge, but many of the Jotnar – including, it seems, Helblindi, who is still lying in a corner of the battlefield that nobody has been able to get close to – have been injured or killed, blue blood staining the ice beneath them.

Loki’s clones dart through and around the drones, distracting and diverting them. Even bolstered by the power of six Norn Stones, Amora seems unable to tell the difference between the clones and the true Loki. She compensates by having her drones attack all of him at once, but this draws their attention away from their other foes, who are quick to seize the advantage.

Loki teleports directly behind her, and sets his hands upon the Norn Stones at her belt. He has never touched them before, but he has read all of the texts that Vanaheim had to offer on the subject, and it seems that some things are instinctive. The drones dissolve back into the ground, and Amora lets out an inchoate gasp and then crumples to the ground, knocked out by the magical backlash of the spell turning against her.

Dizzy with the loss of energy, Loki musters just enough awareness to rip the Norn Stones away from the Enchantress’s unconscious form and toss them aside. The battlefield is still, and then two of the Jotnar rush to Helblindi’s side. Býleistr wavers, seemingly torn between attending to Helblindi or to Loki.

Dazed and fatigued, Loki raises his hands to his face. The blue leaks out slowly, replaced by the pale pink that he has known for most of his life. He stares at it for a moment, perplexed at his own lack of joy. Something twists inside him, and the blue rushes back into his skin, soft Asgardian nails replaced by Jotun claws. His vision is darkening, though, the blue running away in shadowy rivulets, and with a soft sigh Loki collapses into unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

For some unfathomable reason, when Loki wakes up he’s still in Midgard. The air is musty and stagnant and hurts his nose, and he’s overheating something awful, sweat collecting in the pits of his arms and the crooks of his elbows and pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. There is an incessant beeping that speeds up excitedly as Loki drags himself out of unconsciousness. He puts all of these together and then opens his eyes, knowing what he is about to see and not at all happy about it.

He’s in SHIELD medical. That part he’d guessed right. The part that he hadn’t expected is the great lumbering Jotun at his bedside, crumpled into a chair far too small for him, hand thrown across the hospital bed, just touching the tips of Loki’s fingers. Býleistr is fast asleep and drooling slightly.

The beeping gets even wilder and the door opens, letting in a gust of slightly-fresh air and also a smug fool of an Asgardian. Thor leans against the doorway and smiles uncertainly. Loki groans and covers his face in his hands, promptly regretting it when the movement sends a sharp burst of pain through his arms. He aches all over. He doesn’t want to deal with Thor right now. If he had his magic he could just walk right out of here and back to Jotunheim –

Loki freezes and pats frantically at his chest. It wasn’t a dream. His magic thrums within him, just as it always has, just as it hasn’t for the last few long years. He could leave. He could leave right now, go to Jotunheim, or Vanaheim, or even Asgard. He could kill or enslave Thor, he could blow up this entire base – base? Hospital? He could blow up this entire building, anyway – or rule Midgard or, or turn himself into a flowerpot. He could do anything.

Thor’s smile turns kind of crooked, as if he knows exactly what Loki’s thinking, and he says, “You’ve a visitor.”

If it’s that large eyepatched man come to offer him a magazine again, Loki will not be impressed. He’s not especially fond of Midgardian magazines – he prefers those of Vanaheim, which are far more interesting and risqué.

(Loki knows the eyepatched man’s name; he is not an idiot. He simply prefers not to use it. ‘Fury’ is a ridiculous name for a sentient person. It would be akin to calling yourself ‘Mischief’ or ‘Revenge’ – if Loki is forced to encounter the man again then he will call him Nicholas One-Eye and leave it at that.)

It’s not the eyepatched man. Nor is it any of the Avengers, or any of the Jotnar either.

“Sleip _nir_ ,” groans Loki, as his son gleefully endeavours to drape himself over every exposed inch of the bed. “Get off, you great lump. You’re crushing me.”

Sleipnir just whinnies happily, all eight limbs splayed over Loki’s inert form. One of his hooves is digging uncomfortably into his stomach. The bed creaks warningly. The beeping gets even louder until Loki snaps his fingers, and the machine at his side explodes in a puff of sparks.

Sleipnir’s borrowed battle-armour has been removed, leaving the full glory of his purple hide wholly visible. Someone has seen fit to draw little sparkly stars on his hindquarters in some kind of glitter ink. It looks rather twee, but Sleipnir seems pleased with it; he keeps trying to shove his hindquarters into Loki’s face in order to show off his new body art. There are paper flowers woven into his mane.

Blinking glitter out of his eyelashes, Loki brings his hands up to press weakly against Sleipnir’s bulk, trying in vain to get him to shift over. Sleipnir may _think_ that he is still small enough to cuddle up in his parent’s bed, but in actuality he is a twenty-five-hand-tall _beast_ of a horse and Loki has no idea how he even managed to fit through the door, let alone fit onto the bed. Loki’s legs are falling asleep and will probably fall right off soon.

“Býleistr,” says Loki helplessly, and pokes his brother’s muscled arm. “Wake up. I’m being flattened to death by your over-enthusiastic nephew.”

With a rumbling snort that sounds like an ice bear being roused from slumber, Býleistr awakens, flailing around and managing to hit Loki in the face with one of his oversized hands. Loki sneezes and clutches his nose.

“You’re worse than Thor,” he says in fond bafflement. There is a squeak from the doorway, which Loki assumes is Thor protesting this announcement. He ignores him. “Would you please help me remove your fool nephew from this bed? I fear it will collapse beneath us if we don’t do something.”

“You’re awake!” says Býleistr, looking suspiciously watery-eyed. “It’s been _days_. We feared you would never wake. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” grits out Loki, “apart from being _crushed into a pulp_.”

“Oh,” says Býleistr. “Sleipnir, hop off the bed, will you? You’re squashing your dam.”

Sleipnir obligingly leaps off the bed in a tangle of limbs, taking up a position looming over the end of the bed rather than sprawled over the top of it.

“He listens to _you_ ,” grumbles Loki, eyeing his son balefully. “Why does he listen to you and not to me?”

“I’m the fun uncle,” proclaims Býleistr smugly.

“Speaking of uncles,” says Loki, and hesitates. He fears to ask, but he fears the lack of answer more. “How fares Helblindi?”

“He is quite recovered,” says Býleistr, eyes going soft. “Don’t worry about him. He would be here, but he’s occupied with matters of state at the moment.”

“Matters of state?” asks Loki, only half-listening. Sleipnir and Thor are engaged in something of a staring match; Thor blinks and Sleipnir hoots triumphantly. “So he has gone back to Jotunheim?”

“Not at all,” says Býleistr. “He’s upstairs, speaking with the director of this establishment and several of this realm’s leaders. Do you know, they have this thing called _democracy_ , I rather like the sound of it, although I’m told it can get rather complicated –”

“What?” says Loki, surging out of bed. Thor takes an aborted half-step towards him, but Loki only wheezes and clutches at his stomach, then pulls himself up more carefully so that he is sitting on the edge of the bed. “Helblindi is parleying with the mortals?”

“I would hardly call it _parleying_ ,” says Býleistr. “At the moment they’re just arguing a lot. At least the Aesir are staying out of it.”

“There was a possibility the Aesir would _not_ stay out of it?” demands Loki, shooting an outraged glance at Thor. “Am I to be a prisoner again?”

“No!” says Thor involuntarily.

Býleistr gives Thor a half-wary, half-approving glance and then turns back to Loki. “You are not to be a prisoner, don’t worry. The terms of your exile have been carried out to the Allfather’s satisfaction, and that is enough for the Aesir, and that is enough for the Jotnar, as if that didn’t go without saying, and it _should_ be enough for the mortals considering that you hardly broke anything and you’re a foreign dignitary, but for some reason they’re kicking up a fuss.”

“I killed a lot of people,” says Loki. “I should think that counts as breaking something.”

Býleistr waves a hand at him. “It’s Midgard, they are hardly lacking in _people_. I don’t know what they’re so unhappy about.”

Loki has an inkling – more than an inkling, really; he is quite sure he knows exactly what they are unhappy about – but does not voice it. The ways of mortals are not like those of the Aesir, or the Jotnar, or even of the Vanir. To most of the other realms, acts of war are just that, and are not given much consideration during times of peace. To the Midgardians, every creature is solely responsible for their own actions and must be held accountable. They do not care that Loki had fallen through the void, and then been captured by a barbaric people bent on dominating all the realms; all they care about is that Loki obeyed the Other more or less under his own will (whether or not it leant closer to _less_ than to _more_ is nobody’s business but his own), and that Loki brought down an inchoate reign of terror upon those innocent people of Manhattan.

“I will not let them take you, brother,” says Thor determinedly. “You have carried out your sentence, just as I carried out mine, and they cannot ask more of you than that.”

“Of course they can ask more of me than that,” says Loki wearily. “I am the bogeyman to them. The monster under the bed. I am as bad as that green beast of yours.”

“And that _green beast_ is one of this realm’s finest heroes,” says Thor, grinning smugly as if he has won the argument.

“ _Do_ stop talking,” says Loki, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re filling the room with your hot air. I feel foolish just from proximity.”

“I don’t know,” says Býleistr. “I think I like him. Odinson, you may stay and watch over my brother. I must go to Helblindi and ensure that he includes some of those _pop tarts_ in the trade agreement.”

“Trade agreement?” says Loki, and then, “ _Pop tarts_?”

“Aye,” says Thor, “they are a fine dish, fit for kings. Fit even for Lokis.”

If Thor is implying that Loki is a fussy eater, he has no leg to stand on. Loki is a Jotun and his digestion is entirely different from that of the Aesir; it is no wonder that he did not gain much of a liking for food until he reverted back to his true self.

Also, Býleistr is a traitor.

“Fine,” says Loki, “but do not expect me to make conversation. I am going to start teaching Sleipnir practical magic. The Allfather has been horribly remiss in attending to my son’s education.”

Sleipnir lets out a truly ridiculous sound of excitement; if Loki did not know better he would think there was some strange hybrid creature in the room, some cross between a walrus and a rodent.

“Yes, all right, I can teach you to shapeshift,” says Loki, and then adds severely, “but if you use it only for retaining your purpleness I will be very disappointed.”

Sleipnir gives him a tragic look.

“No, you _know_ I don’t mind your being purple, it’s a perfectly valid life choice. It’s your lack of imagination that I object to. You could be a bird. Or a Jotun. Would you not like to be a Jotun?”

His son lets out a quizzical noise and then leans down so that he and Loki are eye-to-eye. Sleipnir pokes out his tongue and licks him very carefully on the nose.

“I am _fine_ ,” says Loki, and gets out of bed to prove it. “See? Do not worry about my exerting myself. I can exert myself all I like.”

“The healers say that you are not to exert yourself for a week at least,” interjects Thor.

“ _I can exert myself all I like_ ,” repeats Loki, slitting his eyes at his not-brother.

“Don’t exert yourself back into a hospital bed,” says Býleistr. “I will see you later; Helblindi and I would be very pleased if you and Sleipnir would join us for a meal. And the Odinson, too, if he likes.”

“I would like that,” says Thor.

“You would _not_ like that,” hisses Loki. “Jotun food would not be at all to your liking. There is – fish. And – and fungus.”

“I like fish,” says Thor, looking wounded.

“Good,” says Býleistr, and gives each of them a nod, “then it is settled. Good day, Odinson; I hope you feel better, Loki.” With that he leaves the room, ducking so as not to hit his head on the rather low doorway.

There is a brief and very awkward silence. For all Loki’s pronouncements he cannot quite muster up the energy to begin a lesson in practical magics. Instead he takes to pacing up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his fists and trying to avoid Thor’s gaze.

“Amora was taken back to Asgard,” says Thor eventually. “She awaits our queen mother’s justice. I thought you would like to know.”

“Good riddance,” says Loki, tossing his head a little. “Did you at least retrieve the books she had stolen from the Vanir?”

“Books?” says Thor. His brow wrinkles, presumably from the strain of gathering up a single thought in that blockheaded cranium of his. “We have her belongings in custody, and the Norn Stones are to return to new hiding places, with new enchantments placed upon them. I do not know about books, but there will be a Vanr diplomat at her sentencing, and they will reclaim anything that she has stolen from Vanaheim.”

“You are not entirely useless, then,” allows Loki. He fixes Thor with a careful stare. “She said she knew you.”

“She did know me,” says Thor heavily. “In our youth she courted me. When I refused her suits, she resorted to dark magic in an attempt to subjugate my will; when the Allfather found out, he banished her. I have not seen her since.”

“Oh,” says Loki. He does not quite know what to say to that. He had been so sure that the Enchantress was lying. “That is... unfortunate.” What is he doing? Why is he offering sympathy? Thor is a buffoon; he has no need of Loki’s sympathy.

“It is,” agrees Thor, “but it cannot be helped.”

There is another silence and then Loki asks, without quite knowing why, and without much hope as to an intelligible answer: “I don’t suppose you know why I have had my magic returned to me _now_ , of all times?”

Thor looks at him for a long moment. His eyes are dark and uncharacteristically serious. “I cannot claim to know the mind of the Allfather,” he says, “but in my banishment, the lesson I had to learn was that of sacrifice for a loved one. I imagine in your case he wished for you to learn to sacrifice yourself for someone that you had wronged.”

Loki supposes that makes sense, according to Thor-logic. It’s very simple but hardly likely. Still, Thor is right on one point at least; they cannot hope to know the mind of the Allfather. Odin Allfather’s justice is immutable but not always comprehensible.

“What now?” asks Loki at last. “Am I to return to Vanaheim or Jotunheim? I presume I am not particularly welcome in Asgard, even if I am no longer banished.”

It is a sad day indeed when Loki Liesmith must resort to asking Thor of all people for advice, but he feels entirely adrift. He does not know what is expected of him. He does not know why he _cares_ what is expected of him – when has Loki ever acted according to anyone’s interests but his own? He has made a life in Vanaheim, after a fashion, but these last few days in Jotunheim have felt strangely... right. There is a lot of potential for a Loki-shaped creature to carve out a Loki-shaped space in Jotunheim.

“I was rather hoping that you might stay with me on Midgard,” says Thor.

Loki lets out a sharp bark of laughter and then abruptly realises that Thor isn’t joking. “What? You cannot be serious.”

“I am nothing but serious,” says Thor. His whole face looks like a puppy. A blonde puppy with waggling ears and a tail thwapping hopefully against the floor. “There is nothing tying you to anywhere in particular. I am glad that you have met your kin on Jotunheim, but there is nothing stopping them from visiting you here, and the same goes for your Vanr friends.”

“You forget,” says Loki, “that they could visit me just as easily anywhere else in the Nine Realms. Anywhere but _Midgard_. Why in Hel’s name would I want to stay here? I am hated here.”

“You are not hated,” says Thor. “Midgard could use your help. There are many villainous sorcerers of late, and we have little recourse when it comes to battling them, since none of us have any magic of our own.”

“Ah,” says Loki, “so it is the welfare of your beloved Midgard that you are worried about, not the welfare of Loki. Well, do not fret; Midgard has survived this long. I do not think it will collapse entirely in my absence.”

“I do not only want you here for Midgard’s sake,” says Thor. He can’t seem to meet Loki’s gaze. “I would appreciate a chance to get to know you again, if you would allow it.”

He feels as if Thor has reached into his chest and plucked out his heart. “Oh,” he manages. “Well, I, I do not know why I would give you that chance. You have squandered every other chance I have given you.”

“That is true,” says Thor, and dips his head. He looks unhappy but resigned. “I will understand if you leave, and I wish you well in all of your endeavours. Just know that you are always welcome here. There are a great deal of treasures that Midgard has to offer one such as Loki.”

Loki snorts. “What, like metal suits and democracy? Please. I have the ice caves of Jotunheim to explore, the fire pits of Muspelheim, the libraries of Vanaheim –”

“There are many libraries on Midgard,” says Thor quickly. “Thousands, in every country and every city, and every language imaginable. Some in languages that are no longer spoken by any living being.”

The world seems to pause.  Loki is suddenly very aware of his heart beating in his chest, fast and loud like a rabbit’s. The moment stretches out and then snaps back into place.

Loki props his chin on his hand. “Tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will very likely be a sequel, or at least timestamps, and they will probably involve Lokiromance and also Sleipnir being ridiculous in kitchens. I’ve been so pleasantly surprised by the response this fic has received; to those who’ve left kudos or comments, I can’t thank you enough.


End file.
